


Seeds of the Northern Kingdom

by Sigil_of_House_Throckmorton



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Sex, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Bent-Over Sex, Breast Fucking, Cousin Incest, Cowgirl Position, Cuckquean, Cunnilingus, Doggy Style, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gentle Sex, Missionary Position, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Post-Series, Riding (Sex Position), Rimming, Squirting, Standing Sex, Touching, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-22 18:05:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 58,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3738322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigil_of_House_Throckmorton/pseuds/Sigil_of_House_Throckmorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The War and Winter have left the Kingdom of the North decimated. The King Jon Stark, formerly Jon Snow, has secured his land's borders for the first peace in almost a decade, and now has lands to govern but not enough men to govern them. While the noble ladies of his court are more than capable and loyal to a fault, providing them all husbands and heirs is becoming an issue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Val

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The setting and characters of the series _A Song of Ice and Fire_ belong to George R. R. Martin. I make no profit from this work, and will remove it should I be contacted by GRRM or any of his legal representatives.
> 
> A/N: This story will be mostly unapologetic smut, with occasional world building for a hypothetical post-series setting. If you are offended by explicit sexual content, read no further. For clarity, please note that all chapters are from Jon's perspective.
> 
> A/N 2: I'm happy to say that the story is now much improved thanks to the beta-reading work of [Gohans_Onna2](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gohans_Onna2/pseuds/Gohans_Onna2). Chapter 8 in particular has been greatly changed. However, if you do see any mistakes, they're definitely mine.

Jon Stark knocked on the door to his lady wife’s chambers. It still amazed him how well she had adapted to life in a castle as large as Winterfell, when before all she had known were huts, skin-tents, and hovels.

“Enter,” Jon heard from inside. It sounded more like a command than an invitation, but that was just another aspect of his wife that he had grown to appreciate.

Jon entered, closing the door behind him, to see his wife seated in a padded chair by the hearth, reading a book. How she had learned to read as a child was almost as much of a mystery to him as where she had acquired a book in the first place. Sam most likely. He was doing his best to restore the library at Winterfell to its former glory, copying any legible texts scavenged from Castle Black and adding them to his collection of tomes copied at the Citadel, all to be stored in the new library tower once it was finished.

Jon approached his wife and kissed her on the top of her head, so as not to break her concentration. Her blonde eyebrows were pushed together, causing small wrinkles to appear on her otherwise smooth face. Her honey-blonde hair was in a braid over one shoulder, her usual preference, and the fire made the small blue flecks stand out in her otherwise grey eyes. Jon let his vision trace down her somewhat prominent jaw, leading to a pointed chin. Even now, married to her for over a year, he could not imagine a more comely face. He also could not help but let his gaze drift lower, admiring the generous cleavage shown by her thick shift. Eventually she put the book on a nearby table and looked up at him.

“Jon, surely you must have better things to do than admire my tits. There are certainly more impressive ones in this castle alone.” Even though Jon felt taken aback, he refused to show it. This was all a part of the game she played.

“On the contrary, my lady. While some might be larger, these are clearly the finest breasts in Winterfell,” he said as he guided her out of the chair before brushing her robe and shift down her shoulders to expose her shapely teats and rosy pink nipples.

Val remained silent at the complement, but quickly seemed to give up any protests as Jon began to caress her. After palming each breast and giving each nipple a twist between his fingers, he slowly began to work his hands down her smoothly sculpted stomach. She responded in kind, stroking softly down his muscular back and across his shoulders, large and taut from training at swords for years. Her fingers traced his scars with special care. His lips met her sternum, before teasing each peak of her breasts with his tongue. Val let her satisfaction be known by making a rough moan as his tongue circled her nipples, which seemed more sensitive than they usually were. Not that Jon minded.

The robe was already on the ground around her, but the shift was caught on her wide hips. With a little assistance from his palms, it slipped over the firm curve of her arse, leaving her bare.

Normally at this point Jon would be guiding them to her bed, or perhaps giving her a lord’s kiss while she stood in front of the fire with her hands fisted in his hair, but her reactions to his oral ministrations of her chest kept his mouth rooted to its spot. Every lick, nibble, and kiss extracted more heated cries of passion from his lady, until he squeezed one of her teats tightly, something she often particularly enjoyed.

Instead of another moan, Jon heard a yelp and was knocked back on his arse, his face stinging.

“Val! What was that for?”

“It was good until it wasn’t,” Val replied simply. Her face was cold with displeasure, but rapidly softened at the sight of Jon splayed out on the floor. “My breasts are more sensitive than usual, so while that felt nice, you can’t be as rough with them as you like.”

Jon’s confusion evaporated and his face returned to his normal, somber expression. That was something he always appreciated about his wife, or rather anyone of the Free Folk, their straightforwardness in situations that would make most highborn ladies cringe and shy away. At least, situations where he _thought_ they would. He had never lain with a highborn lady.

“Now come to bed. You can play with them more while you’re inside me,” Val stated as she sauntered towards the bed and its soft furs. Her hips swung deeply with every step, the prominent globes of her arse jiggling with every footfall.

Jon needed no more encouragement.

Val laid herself out on the bed with her belly down and face turned to the side, watching him as he approached. The smirk on her face and gleam in her eyes drove Jon wild. He stripped away his clothes as if they were on fire and leapt onto the bed, straddling her at the bend in her knees. Val seemed to understand his desire and swung her hips back towards his, arching her svelte back and trapping his rock-hard cock between her buttocks before supporting her upper body on her elbows.

Jon could not help the growl that escaped his lips when she began rocking her hips up and down his shaft. The base of his cock was pressed against the folds of her cunt, and he could already feel the moisture beginning to lubricate him.

Val breathed encouragement over her shoulder. “That’s it Jon, take me like a wolf. Like Ghost would take a wolf bitch.”

“As my lady commands.” Jon grabbed a luscious cheek in his left hand and bent over her back as he aligned his cock to its destination. After using his right hand to steady his cockhead against her wet outer folds, he moved both hands up her sides to squeeze on her breasts, with as much tenderness as he could restrain himself to.

“Oh Jon, yes, that’s perfect—ah!” his wife keened as he pushed his hips forward, driving his cock leisurely into her tight cunt. He was as hard as iron, and he could feel each pass of a fold or wrinkle over the head of his cock, like a loving caress.

Once Jon was sheathed inside her, their hip bones pressed tightly together and the swell of her buttocks pressing against his belly, he shifted his focus back to teasing her breasts. Val released a loud moan when he surrounded each teat in a circular grip and pulled his fingers together to meet at her nipples, pinching and rolling them in the process. Not being one to deviate from a working strategy, Jon began repeating the motion.

“Is that too rough, my lady?” Jon inquired with a throaty whisper through her hair and into her ear. Her head was still turned to the side, so Jon planted a kiss on the end of her sharp cheek bone. “I would not wish to harm my wildling princess.”

Val’s eyes were closed, but at his use of her southron appellation she opened the closest one and locked her gaze with his. The pupil of her grey eye was blown wide with pleasure. “No Jon, that is perfect. On my teats, at least. My cunt needs no such special treatment.” More than anything, the lack of her usually heated response to her false title indicated to Jon just how aroused she was.

As Val said it, she arched her back and pulled her hips forward until his cock was only buried within her halfway. Before she could reverse the action, Jon took the initiative and thrust back to the base, letting all of his pent-up lust power the stroke. Val’s arse cheeks smacked against his taught stomach, and he could feel her walls instinctively contract around his cock from the force of his stroke. She let out a gasp, but before she could breathe in again Jon had already lifted his hips again and given her another hard thrust.

“Oh, fuck yes, pound into me just like that! Oh, oh, AH!” Val’s exclamations continued, driving Jon to fuck her with as much power as he could. His concentration was split, attempting to knead nimbly at her breasts without hurting her while at the same time slamming his cock into her cunt with as much force as his legs and back could provide. His thighs quickly began to ache from the effort, causing Jon to pause momentarily to reposition himself. “Worry not, princess … I’ll fuck you until you can no longer walk,” he replied as he moved his feet underneath him. Dirty talk between them was nothing new, but the way he was contorting himself was something they had not tried before. In this position, his knees clenched her thighs together and his hips were higher in the air behind her, but he could use his whole legs to push himself up before ramming his cock back into her, angled almost straight down.

“Grrrah!”

This time it was Jon who vocalized his pleasure first. The new position put much more pressure on the underside of his cock than he anticipated, particularly at the underside of its tip. He was completely unprepared for the feeling, and his hands gripped tightly out of reflex, mashing her breasts in his fists.

“Oowrgh! Fuck!” Val replied. She opened her eyes again sent Jon a glare that said _do that again and you won’t live to finish_.

At that point, Jon hardly cared. Her unyielding yet lubricious cunt was clenched more tightly around him than his fist could grip his sword, and he could feel his end approaching with haste. Jon moved one hand under the sparse honey-colored curls between her thighs to the nub at the apex of her slit and began to rub it with vigor, while the other grabbed one of her nipples, coiling his fingers around it as lovingly as he could manage. Val made no protests, and soon her breathing became erratic, her face and shoulders flushed, and her body trembled with bliss.

“Yes, Jon! Yes! My southron wolf-lord! It’s so good! AH! Give me your seed!” Val begged as her orgasm ran its course.

Hearing her plea was too much for Jon. The area between his legs was filled with a sudden pressure. His toes contracted beyond his control, and his breathing hitched into a mixture between a grunt and a sigh as he felt his cock explode into his wife. Jon’s position above her was more precarious than he realized, and he lost his balance as pulse after pulse of seed was delivered into her fluttering cunt.

The next thing Jon remembered, he found himself collapsed on top of Val; his vision beset with honey blonde hair and his nose filled with the sweaty, cloying scent of their sex. They were both out of breath, and he would swear he could feel her heart beating through her back where his chest pressed up against her. _Or maybe that is my own. It’s almost as if our hearts truly do beat as one_. Jon had always thought that song was full of shit, but maybe the minstrels had a point this once.

He was still buried in Val to the hilt, and her luscious arse cheeks and thighs were pressed against his hips. His cock was sodden with the product of their love-making, but at this point he had no desire to move.

“I’m sorry if I was too rough on you, princess. I missed you terribly while I was away.” Jon rolled off of her, wincing when he heard the squelching sound announcing their detachment, and pulled a bear fur over both of them. The trip to Hornwood to ensure the legitimized Larence Hornwood’s transition to lordship went smoothly and lasted only a fortnight, but the separation from Val had pained him deeply.

Val rolled to face him and scowled. “I might have been too distracted earlier, but I will not tolerate that title now.” Her voice was full of fury, but the corners of her eyes were pulled up, something like a private smile, just for him. “And I already knew that you missed me. You only ever fuck me that hard when we have been apart.”

“I have to make sure you aren’t going to go steal someone else to satisfy your urges. I figured that by giving you something to look forward to when I return, you’ll not stray from our bed.” Jon caressed her cheek as he said it, marveling as the blush receded from her cheeks.

“You know nothing, Jon Stark. I might have strayed from lovers before, but none were men near as good as you.”

Jon paused as he considered the compliment. Val rarely exposed her feelings to him, and that was the closest her words had ever come to affection outside of their wedding vows before the heart tree, which he knew she found frivolous and silly. “That’s good to know. I suppose I have no reason to fuck you like that anymore then.”

Val’s dilated pupils flashed with fear for just a moment, until she hit him on the shoulder. “I never said anything about that. That was one of the best fucks I’ve ever had. Almost as good as my last time with Jarl…” She waited for him to respond to the bait, but he refused. She continued, “Although, when I asked you not to be too rough on my chest, I did mean it.”

“I am sorry about that. You looked like you were enjoying yourself so much, and I lost control for but a moment…” Jon showed her what he hoped was a sheepish smile. She gave him one, presumably in return. They basked in their sexual satisfaction together for a few moments, listening to the fire crack in the hearth.

Eventually, Jon’s curiosity got the better of him. “What was it that you were reading, earlier?”

“A book of laws and customs regarding marriage and heirs in these southron kingdoms. While you were gone I had received a letter from Alys Thenn that left me in need of refreshment on the kneeler customs,” Val explained. Jon tried to focus, since this sounded more important than most of their pillow talk.

“What happened?”

“Sigorn of Thenn is dead. The man was apparently trying to learn the joust. A training lance shattered and a splinter went through his neck, and the Maester was unable to stop the bleeding. Lady Alys is devastated,” Val reported.

Jon closed his eyes and sighed. Sigorn had been a good man, and Jon had hoped he would become a trusted bannerman. “I’m sure Alys is capable of looking after Barrowton, but it will be hard to control the Thenn men with their Magnar dead. The Dustin loyalists will also be none too happy at having another Lady with no heir as their liege.”

The death of Lady Barbrey to Ramsay Snow during the Reclamation of Winterfell had been most unfortunate, since the Dustin succession had never been sure even before the War began. After Harrion Karstark had returned from his imprisonment and swore fealty to Jon, he had been allowed to inherit his family’s ancestral home. With no obvious claimants for the Dustin lands, Jon had awarded them to Sigorn and Alys for their leal service in sending House Thenn’s men to defend him when he had been betrayed by the Night’s Watch. The Thenns were more used to lordship than the other Free Folk, and their absolute devotion to their Magnar would keep them from harassing the surrounding lands. It had been one of Jon’s better moves as the new King in the North, and to see it fall apart from a jousting accident made him feel very inconsequential.

“It is not so bad, Jon. She let them know that she carries Sigorn’s heir,” Val replied.

Jon sighed again, this time in relief. “Oh, well, that simplifies matters considerably.” The Thenns would be happy to have a new Magnar, and the Dustin men could not complain about having another heirless lady.

“Except that she confided to me that she had her moon blood not two days after Sigorn succumbed to his wound.”

“Val, I would appreciate you not toying with me like this. I can’t concentrate on the movement of your breasts when you make me think this hard.”

Val moved her arm so that the furs would fall away from her chest, but she made it seem like rather than responding to him, she was doing only what she had planned to in the first place. “You need not worry. I’ve already sent my reply with instructions on how to rectify the situation,” she said with the imperious smirk she used whenever she was able to show superiority over his southron way of thinking.

A strong sense of dread eclipsed Jon, joined by not a small amount of panic. “Val, what have you done?”

“The solution is simple. In times past, if a Lady of the North’s husband died with no heir apparent, the king would give her an heir to continue the husband’s house.”

The implications dawned on Jon like the inevitable rise of the sun, burning away his mind as Val’s plan unfurled itself before him. He had to stop this from happening, he had to—

“Before you panic, Jon, listen to me,” Val said softly as she pulled him into her chest. Jon had to give her credit; she did know how to relax him. “Lady Alys is already on her way to Winterfell. She should be here within a sennight. You can lie with her discreetly until we are sure she carries a child, and she will stay here as a guest of ours until she delivers and sometime afterward while she recovers from the birth. By the time she returns to Barrowton, the dates will be too confused with travel for anyone to figure it out. The child will be a Thenn by birth, in the eyes of the people and in the eyes of the old gods. I would not force you to make a bastard, and I will harbor no ill will towards this child. And before you ask, she understood the whole plan and agreed to it before she left.”

Jon nodded into her bosom. Unfortunately, Val had not assuaged his greatest trepidation in the matter. “At this point I see little choice but to continue on this path you’ve started us down. I had hoped, however, that my first child might be with the woman I love.” He looked at her intently, trying to force his meaning into her thoughts by will alone.

“That won’t be a problem either. I’ve been carrying your child for the past three moons, Jon Stark … my love.”

“What…?” Jon said.

Cradled as he was between her breasts, the world could not possibly have shifted so dramatically. Jon slid his hand from around her back across her belly, drifting steadily lower. He didn’t feel anything different about her. His resting place bounced as Val chuckled.

“You won’t notice anything _there_ for some moons yet. Did the maesters teach you nothing? Perhaps our children shall be taught by a woods witch instead … well, our daughters, anyway.” Val flashed a grin at him.

Unfortunately, Jon had never received any education at all about how babies formed within women. He knew the basics well enough, but as a bastard he was never expected to know how to care for a wife with child. Surely Sam would know something about it, he had a link for delivering children, didn’t he? Regardless, Val’s explanation did answer one of his questions. That left the other matter, however.

“Val, what was the last thing you said?” he asked.

“That our daughters would be taught by a woods witch, if I’m lucky enough to find a good one among you kneelers—” she said before he cut her off.

“No, _before_ that. You know what I mean.”

Val paused for a moment to eye him seriously.

“I said that you were my love,” she said with her imperious tone, as though daring him to challenge her statement. The longer Jon looked at her though, the more cracks he could see in her façade, as though she might shatter any moment. He had said the words to her countless times, but this was the first time she had made such a declaration to him.

Jon didn’t trust his words at times like these, so he pushed himself up to her level and kissed her on the mouth, attempting to impart as much of his tenderness, passion, and love for her into it as he could. He prodded her supple lips with his tongue, causing her to open her mouth and allow their kiss to deepen.

After what could have been moments or days, they parted, and Jon kissed each of her closed eyes, causing them to open. “Then know that I love you as well, Val of the Free Folk, Queen in the North and the Gift.” The blue flecks in her grey irises sparkled, and soon they were kissing once more.

Val rolled him onto his back and sat astride him, his burgeoning cock settling between her slick thighs. “Titles mean nothing to me Jon, or else I would still call you Lord Crow. I’m just Val to you, and you shall always be just Jon to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As you might have guessed, this will be a harem story. I’ve made every attempt to give characters realistic motivations and their canon ages, but this is first and foremost smut, so don’t expect gritty realism or some grand work of literature. Chapter updates will be sporadic at best, with new tags added as they are needed. I have a rough plot mapped out, so I will not be taking requests for particular characters.


	2. Alys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alys Thenn comes to Winterfell to mourn the loss of her husband, and hopefully rectify the political situation his death has left in Barrowton.

Alys Thenn arrived with a small party of only a dozen men and women. All of her guards were her late husband’s men, although her attendants seemed mostly Northern men and women. King Jon Stark stood in front of the Great Keep in the courtyard of Winterfell to greet her, with Val on his left and Ghost sitting at his right, his head now reaching Jon’s shoulder.

The lady stepped out of her carriage dressed a gown of thick black wool, with a white cloak stylized with the arms of House Thenn worn proudly around her shoulders. She looked much as he remembered, as tall as he was with long limbs and a long face to match. Her hair was thickly braided, much like Val’s, but her cheeks were fuller and her arms not quite as skinny as she had been upon their last meeting. She did not accept the offered hand of Winterfell’s steward, Eddison Tollett, as she descended the steps and placed herself in front of the royal couple.

“Lady Thenn, be welcome to Winterfell. All of her hospitalities are yours. We will do whatever we can to comfort you as you mourn the loss of your husband.” Jon did not like speaking so formally, but his reputation with the smallfolk, slowly returning to the castle as the spring thaw continued, was still contentious at best. While few were still alive who remembered him, everyone had heard how the King was raised a bastard. It was in these situations where he was easily judged that appearances were everything in overturning their presumptions.

“Thank you, Your Grace. House Thenn is in your debt for taking me in during our time of need,” replied Alys, with a tone similarly stilted in formality. He noted that she did not kneel, or even curtsey. _No doubt to appease her Thenns._

“It is worth no debt to us, Alys. You are always welcome in our home. Won’t you come inside and join me for a meal?” Val said, seeming to have caught on. Jon suspected she had never welcomed a lady into a castle before, but no one would know it by observing her. There had been no extra food with which to feast after the war had ended, and lords and men alike were quick to return to their families. Jon had been ruling by raven for over a year.

Val escorted Alys and her maids into the keep while Jon assigned her men to be instructed by Edd. Jon wanted to follow them, to pull Alys aside and ensure that what they planned was truly her wish and not a move out of desperation. He also knew that appearing too familiar would only draw unwanted eyes and ears, which would lead to words like ‘lovers’ and ‘bastards’ being said, which never ended well for anyone.

Instead, Jon and Ghost found Othell Yarwyck attempting to direct the giant Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun to turn a stone on its side that would have required four men to lift. Wun Wun had a much better grasp of the common tongue than he did a year previously, but Leathers still had to help with complicated instructions. Apparently the word ‘flip’ was not something easily communicated in the Old Tongue.

The First Keep was far from finished, but Jon still checked its progress every day. He owed it to the good men who had given up their lives for his family’s indolence.

After hearing the daily progress report from Yarwyck, Ghost bounded out the Hunter’s Gate and Jon went to the training yard and met with Iron Emmett. The master-at-arms of Winterfell might not have been anointed with the seven knightly oils of Lady Catelyn’s gods, but he could still knock Jon on his arse in a fight more times than not.

“You’re fighting like one of them newborn fawns out in the Wolfswood today, Your Grace!” Emmett told him after Jon found himself on his arse once again. “You won’t get better if you fight with your head wandering off wherever it goes. Have at me again, this time like you mean it!”

And so he did.

Soon enough, Jon found himself at dinner. There was no feast to welcome the Lady Thenn, but she dined at the high table and was served by Dryn Giantsbane, the King’s own page. Dinners at Winterfell were not so formal as when he had been a bastard, but nor were they the chaos of a Free Folk civilization on the march. Alys did not seem to mind. They were all able to make casual conversation, and although Alys seemed distant and sad she still retained the demure smiles from her wedding night and would sometimes look and speak as though she were in a dream rather than reality, something about her Jon remembered from her visit to Lord Eddard’s castle all those years ago.

“You must join me for some mulled wine in my solar, Alys. We have not enough spearwives in our castle, and most kneeler women are too frightened of me to provide good company,” Val said to her with a grin that brought out the dimples in her cheeks. “The King will join us as well, I suspect,” she directed at him, with a blonde eyebrow arched meaningfully. Jon could run no longer.

He escorted the ladies through the halls to the chambers Val had chosen for herself, which had once belonged to Vayon Poole. They were among the cooler rooms in the keep, the fire having destroyed any furniture or tapestries that might have once marked the solar as that of a steward rather than a queen. Ghost lay on the stone close to the hearth, tongue lolled out the side of his mouth. He dismissed Dryn after the wine had been set over the fire and settled onto a padded lounge as Val and Alys made themselves comfortable.

“You have been avoiding me, Your Grace,” Alys stated after a lull had passed in her conversation with Val. “I understand that the arrangements must be displeasing to you. You have already done so much for me, even before you were King….”

Jon felt his heart twist in guilt. “I did not mean to avoid you, my lady. It is just that … this is not a situation that I have ever been prepared to handle.”

Alys gave a sullen chuckle. “I would expect not. To go from a bastard boy to the King in the North, to raise a noble house out of a wildli—forgive me, Val, out of a man of the Free Folk. And then to have him die so young, and so pointlessly after all the battles he fought for you and with you, a-and…” At this point Alys burst into tears and began to sob.

Crying women were something else Jon had never been prepared to handle, and the look he gave Val must have made him appear no better than a frightened rabbit. Val shook her head in exasperation before sliding into the chair alongside Alys and began to rub small circles across her back and shoulders. Alys leaned into the older woman and cried tears into her grey and white wool dress.

“H-he scared me at first, you know. When y-you told me that I was to marry him, my first thought was ‘at least Cregan will be terrified of him as well’. B-but Sigorn was so gentle to me on our wedding night, and he held me afterward and told me that he would protect me as long as I was his.”

A sob wracked her body and she shivered. “When you took him south to the Twins, I thought that I would lose yet another man that I loved. Just like Edd, and Tor, and Daryn, and father too. I even had a nightmare that you had taken his head.” She gave a sniffle, seeming to calm some. “But when Sigorn returned with you, he looked so happy. He and his men had scaled a great castle, and brought low true southron knights. He talked of lizard-lions in the Neck, and a river mightier than the Milkwater. He talked of his strong King, who defeated an army with a band of raiders and frog-men and kept his vengeance close to his heart but his justice closer.”

Alys offered a grim smile through her tears. “He would never kneel, but he told me that if he did, it would be to you.” Val’s delicate hands brushed the tears away from her tall cheeks. “And while I am heartbroken that I cannot truly carry that wonderful man’s sons, he would be glad to know that your line would continue his.”

The willowy lady embraced the pale northern queen before standing from her seat and approaching Jon. It could not be the saunter she clearly intended – swaying hips could not make up for bloodshot eyes and a running nose – but Jon understood her intention nonetheless.

“I will do whatever I can to preserve his legacy, my lady.”

“No formalities when we do this. I will be Alys, and you will be Jon,” she said as she kissed him on the mouth. She collapsed into his lap as another quiet sob shook her. Fat salty tears, and perhaps some snot, mingled with their lips, but the kiss was salvaged by the fervor she brought. Her tongue met his, clumsy and desperate for contact.

“You two may retire to my chambers,” Val uttered, not unkindly. “I may be used to the sight and sounds of coupling, but someone must prevent my maids from becoming overeager in their service. I’ll ensure you are not disturbed.”

Jon separated from the kiss and glanced at Val, seeking final confirmation that what he was about to do would not hurt her. There was an unusual hesitance in Val’s expression, but she gave him a soft smile and indicated once again to her sleeping chambers and the bed within them. His worries eased when she sat next to Ghost and stroked the white fur behind his ears, each as big as her palm.

Alys was insistent, and Jon could hardly close the door behind them once they arrived. He deposited her on the furs and climbed on beside her.

“I do not kn–mmmph.” _I do not know what you prefer_ , Jon meant to say, but Alys seemed to have no problems communicating her desires despite her lack of words. Her hands were running through his hair, stroking his beard, down his chest and had undone the laces of his breeches before he truly had time to respond.

Jon tried to reciprocate as best he could. He messaged her scalp with his fingertips, rubbed small circles down the back of her gown as he sought the laces there, and pulled her dress from her shoulders by rubbing his palms firmly across her shoulder blades.

Ygritte had been very vocal when they fucked, cursing and grunting even when they were surrounded by dozens of other people. Jon had not noticed until the next morning, but looking back on it, everyone must have known exactly what they were doing. He had never taken Val in front of an audience like that, but she would also comment during their love-making, sometimes in full sentences and sometimes in sweet moans and heady sighs.

Alys was nothing like them. Her responses were all completely tactile. If Jon fondled her in a way she liked, she would reward him with a hand passed over his cock, or by sucking his lower lip into her mouth. If she was displeased, she would hold her hands still where they were. It was novel and altogether different than anything Jon was used to, but certainly enjoyable.

Eventually each article of their clothing was cast aside and then they were bare before one another. Even though Alys appeared less starved than she had at Castle Black, she remained skinny. The real difference between her and his previous lovers was that she was skinny and _soft_. Her stomach had none of the muscular outlines he had come to expect from Ygritte, and to a lesser extent Val; it was soft and skinny and delicate, much like the lady herself. Her breasts were still small and peaked, and were the firmest part of her flesh when he took them in hand.

Alys continued to roam her hands across his body, occasionally stopping at the scars, inspecting them gently before carrying on. Even when Jon brushed his cock against the wetness of her mound, she persisted in her physical responses, this time by applying pressure to his buttocks with her palms and feet, as though she were trying to direct him inside.

Jon was not one to protest such a thing. He drew his hips back and positioned the now dripping tip against her soft nether-lips. One of her hands left his arse to separate the folds and guide him where he needed to be. Jon concentrated on kissing her as he eased his way inside. He ran his tongue along both her lips, circled her tongue within her mouth, and traced her teeth before starting the pattern again. Bit by bit, his cock slid into her warm embrace.

Eventually he reached a depth that her arousal had not, despite his cock being buried only halfway. Jon began the process of retracting it, trying to keep the same speed as before, to gather more moisture from her entrance with his tip before pushing back in to continue the process. Jon didn’t notice how long it took, exactly, but eventually he found himself making smooth, full strokes in and out of Alys. He luxuriated in her soft, warm cunt.

Very rarely would Jon take things this slow with Val, usually on their second or third attempt of a night. Ygritte was energetic no matter how many times they had gone. Alys seemed to appreciate a slower tempo, and Jon was if nothing else a man who could adapt. He kept his hands busy, twisting small patterns into her wavy brown hair, so close but not quite like his own. He palmed and squeezed her breasts, her nipples too sensitive for pinching and twisting. He grabbed an arse cheek and stroked up her leg to change the angle of penetration slightly, eliciting a subdued but definitely positive response from both of them.

After longer than Jon had ever lasted before, he heard Alys’s breathing deepen. Her cunt, which had been smooth and yielding the entire time, spasmed demurely. The light fluttering was sweet and gentle, just like the lady he was lying with, and a surge of affection swelled within him. She had lost so much in just a few years, more men to war and treason and bad luck than many others, but she had clearly loved the man he had married her to as a stranger. And now, as a tribute to that man, she was willingly giving her body to Jon.

Affection was not the only thing surging within Jon. As her orgasm died away and the hands Alys had been encouraging him with relaxed around him in a gentle embrace, Jon let his orgasm materialize. He stilled his lips and hips against hers, his tongue deep within her mouth as his cock twitched deep within her cunt. Jon pulled away just in time to notice a new set of tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

“I hope I have done nothing to hurt you, my lady.” Jon had honestly enjoyed the experience, and he thought Alys had reciprocated in his pleasure. Perhaps not. _I am not her true husband, and she must miss him_.

She sniffed before responding. “No Jon, nothing at all. That was wonderful. That was exactly how Sigorn and I would…. Well, with a wife as spirited as Val, I did not expect our coupling to be so gentle.” Despite the tears running down her face, her grey eyes smiled up at him from the furs. “That was what I needed, I think, to start getting over him. And hopefully we have created a new Sigorn tonight, to carry on the legacy of the first.”

They both startled at the knock on the door, followed shortly by Val’s honey-blonde head poking in.

“I hope you two are done, because the maids are getting suspicious. I still have to redress you, Alys, before you can return to your rooms, and Jon is going to owe me a tussle before the night is done.”

Alys let out a diminutive giggle and stood up from the bed. Her coltish body pulled Val into a hug, and she kissed her over and over on the cheeks while muttering soft words of thanks into her ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for the overall positive response so far. I hope the second chapter doesn't disappoint. The tone is quite different than the first, but then again, so is the situation. As you can tell, the word "harem" might not be exactly correct - Alys will go back to Barrowton once she has her child, and Jon will NOT continue to bed Alys once his purpose in the scheme is complete. There will be no insanely improbable threesomes. Just a lot of good, honest smut.


	3. Lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon deals with a succession crisis from one of his most loyal bannerwomen. Val delivers some mixed news, accompanied by an odd request.

Underbrush crushes underneath him as he runs through the trees. The scent of his prey is growing stronger. He hears it crashing through the new growth, desperate to get away. It will not matter. He is the fastest one in this forest, the master of this land. There is nothing here he could not take, if he wanted to. And his prey will be taken soon.

It appears before him in a clearing, trying to find new cover in which to hide. Teeth tear into the back of its neck and claws rake down its side as he hits the beast from an angle. The horns try to stab at him, but it cannot turn its head far enough. Another bite and a crunch of bone and the prey moves no more. Warm meat and blood fill his mouth as he eats his kill. One this large will keep him fed for a few days.

He can spend more time in the man-den with his man-pack if he hunts bigger game. The men would toss him scraps of what they ate, but they were always weary when he wandered near them. Standing, he could look most in the eyes now, and they constantly smelled of fear. They need not cower like prey. He only attacks when his other self or his other self’s pack is in danger. Both of the mates his other self took are now carrying pups. He can smell it on their sweat, and hear the fast heart beating within the keen one. They will both be protected like his own.

A loud _crack_ comes from downwind.

Something approaches him from the trees. Something without his stealth, something _loud_. Something loud and _big_.

A great brown bear crashes through the wood. On all legs she was as tall as him, but she outweighs even his considerable form. If she came to take his kill, it will be a hard fight.

He stands over his kill; muzzle covered in blood and bits of flesh, he bares his teeth and raises his hackles to show the intruder that he is no small threat. The bear bellows at him but continues to close in; now beginning a circle around him while edging ever closer.

He snaps his jaws and repositions to stay facing the bear. She roars again and stands as a man would to show her large front claws before falling back to the earth with a _thud_.

Fierce green eyes lock onto him. _Skinchanger!_

The bear had noticed too. Its head cocks to the side and it stops its advance. Another roar, this time questioning instead of threatening.

The kill is large, and even if he ate his fill, there would be meat left over. Hackles are lowered and he lies down on the back half, claiming the meaty haunches and belly for himself. The she-bear understands and approaches. She crushes the antlers beneath her powerful claws before burying her muzzle into the muscles behind the neck.

Meat now swells his belly, and pre-dawn light is coming through the clearing.

He woke up in his lady wife’s chambers with her honey-blonde hair tangled in his hand, the other protectively wrapped around her barely-there swell.

Jon rolled onto his back. Alys was pregnant, if Ghost’s nose was anything to be believed. They had tried dozens of times due to the importance of getting the timing close enough to Sigorn’s death for the paternity not to fall under question. She missed her moon blood a fortnight ago, but after discussing matters with Val and a woods witch settled with some of the Free Folk in the nearby Wolfswood, she continued to share his bed until they were sure. It would take little to convince Val, but Alys would definitely wonder why they were both so sure of it. Words like ‘warg’ and ‘skinchanger’ were occasionally heard in whispers around Winterfell, more by Ghost than Jon, but no one had yet made the accusation to his face. Alys Thenn might trust Jon, but she grew up with the same stories of evil skinchangers as all highborn northerners. It would be better not to tell her.

 _Another skinchanger is close, though._ Jon rarely encountered skinchangers inside their animals, and never before he heard that they could do it. Last night’s wolf dream was startling primarily because he had no idea to whom the bear belonged. There was a settlement towards the White Knife where a goat-changer of the Free Folk had homesteaded, but he knew of no bears.

Jon donned his robe and returned to his solar to find Satin waiting to dress him for the day. He was to hold court that morning, and after rinsing in a basin Satin gave him his breeches and a tunic, both grey, and a white doublet with the Stark direwolf emblazoned on the chest. He pulled the largely ceremonial grey fur cloak about his shoulders while Satin laced up his boots. Finally, the bronze and iron crown forged for his brother was set upon his head. The Blackwoods would not say how they recovered it, but Jon was grateful nonetheless. Jon proceeded to make his way to the Great Hall to break his fast.

When he arrived at the audience chamber, people of all size and shape and birth were lined up along the walls and packing the floor. Merchants mingled with smallfolk while Lady Thenn sat near Gilly, although Sam was conspicuously absent from his normal position as scribe. Fires burned brightly in three hearths on either side of the chamber, leading towards the stone steps of the small stone dais that bore the throne. The intricately carved throne his father would use only for the most formal of occasions was burned in the sack, and while functional, the ironwood replacement was hardly as impressive.

He sat down, facing the gathering, the empty identical chair on his left to be filled should Val wish to hold court with him later in the morning. She performed admirably in her duties, especially in regards to troubles or disputes among the Free Folk, but she found most of it ‘as dull as a Baratheon’s company’ and skipped as many times as she attended.

Dolorous Edd introduced various men and women; some seeking work at the castle, a group of farmers wanting to settle over a nearby hill on Stark lands to farm turnips and radishes and pigs and horses, a group of Free Folk wishing to expand their hunting rights in the Wolfswood, the guildmaster of the shipwrights from White Harbor petitioning for more logging permits to be granted in the Hornwood lands, traders coming to offer gems to house Stark to create a magnificent and likely gaudy royal crown, a man from Winter Town demanding justice for the rape of his daughter by a guard. The petitions went on and on, requests and pleas and some threats for good measure. They were all dealt with, agreements signed and sealed by the king’s own hand and times set for trials and future meetings.

“A new arrival, Your Grace,” Edd told him about halfway through the morning. “I didn’t know she was coming, else I would have scheduled a formal welcoming from you. She seemed more insulted at my presence than the lack of yours.”

Jon rested his forehead in his palm. “Just introduce her, Edd.”

To the audience, his steward announced his surprise guest. “The Lady Lyanna Mormont, of Bear Island!” Jon perked up and looked at the arrival.

The oak and iron doors to the antechamber opened to reveal a girl who looked to be no more than five-and-ten. Her thick brown hair appeared to be straight, but tied in two braids on either side of her head, resting in front of her shoulders. Her face was round but with a defined jaw. She wore a brown dress with green fringe displaying the green and black Mormont crest resting proudly on her small bosom, and a bear-skin cloak draped around her shoulders. She had a fierce demeanor as she approached the dais before kneeling in front of the steps and bowing her head.

“Jon Stark, King in the North!” she cried with a contralto voice that was deep but still came across as girlish. She glanced up at him with fierce green eyes, as though awaiting his approval.

Jon looked about awkwardly before realizing what she wanted him to do. “Lady Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island, rise and be welcome to Winterfell.” She rose and smiled at him. “Why have you come to court unannounced?”

With that, her face fell. “I apologize, Your Grace. My raven must have been lost … um….” Despite her confident entrance, Lyanna now looked a girl her age.

Jon did not want her to suffer unduly. “These things are expected, my lady. We shall have rooms made available for you and your party. What was the message sent with this raven?”

“It concerns the lordship of Bear Island, Your Grace,” she said, looking a bit more relaxed. “My mother, the Lady Maege, died in her sleep the night she returned from the war.”

“I know this,” replied Jon. “She was one of the North’s finest commanders in the field, and a true and good woman besides. The North has lost a great lady, and she will be missed.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. However, her death has left a succession crisis for Bear Island that I’ve spent the past year trying to resolve. I think I have a solution, but it seemed to me that I should bring such matters of state to the King in the North.”

Jon was impressed by the way she composed herself when speaking of such things. He indicated that she should continue.

“With my lady mother dead, and no sons to inherit, the lands and title fall to her daughters. Dacey, my eldest sister, was murdered protecting King Robb at the Red Wedding. My next sister, Alysane, is now Alysane Giantsbane, the Lady of the Gift. I asked her to return home, but she thinks she is better suited to helping her husband Toregg whenever he steps into his lordship in full. She stated that she would step aside from the lordship of our family lands to raise their children at Oakenshield.”

Jon gave a nod. “If you have papers bearing this intent of hers and her seal, then I will set her aside. That leaves your sister Lyra as the heir, I believe.”

“Exactly,” confirmed Lyanna, “… except that she never returned to Bear Island. Based on what mother told me the night she got home, Lyra fell in love with a crannogman while she was stuck in Greywater Watch with King Robb’s will.”

“I remember him from our campaign. Lucen. He is a good man, and will make a fine husband for her.” Jon noticed her skeptic look. “How is this a problem?”

“Well, Your Grace, his full name is Lucen _Reed_ , and he was Lord Howland’s younger brother.”

Darkness surrounded him. Air frozen and stale drenched his lungs. He was back in the crypts, far below the First Keep and fighting for his life. Howland Reed, Lord of the Neck, turned to pure ice beside him and shattered.

Howland Reed, whose two children were missing since the sack of Winterfell, never to be heard from again.

“I think I see, my lady. Lucen Reed is now the Lord of Greywater Watch, and currently has no heirs.”

Lyanna blushed. “Well, he does, actually. My sister gave birth to a son not six moons ago. But their son will be the lord of the crannogmen should Howland’s children never be found, and they plan to raise him in their ways.”

“Then I assume she also wished to be excluded from the succession of Bear Island?” Jon asked.

“Yes, Your Grace, and I have papers from her saying as such as well.” Lyanna seemed to be building up her courage again.

“You need not tell me what has happened to Jorelle, my lady. Her wedding to Hoster Blackwood happened in this castle’s own godswood when I awarded them lordship of the Twins. After all, she was a fourth daughter, who would have thought she would need to succeed her mother?” Jon realized he had gotten to the meat of it now.

“Aye, Your Grace, exactly,” Lyanna acknowledged. “I received her letter formally withdrawing her claim not two moons ago.” The girl started shaking in nervous anticipation. “When this whole thing started, I was but a girl. But ravens are unsure and slow to fly in winter, and since then I have flowered and am now a woman grown. I have been castellan of Bear Island in my family’s absence, and I held it against Ironborn raids for two of those years. I have been ruling Bear Island in all but name since that time. I have come to request that you formalize me as the Lady of Bear Island, Your Grace!”

Lyanna had clearly become more uneasy as she fought through her speech and tried to make up for it by getting progressively louder, finishing with a shout. The hall was silent when she finished and her face burned in embarrassment.

Luckily, attention was soon diverted away from her when the antechamber doors squeaked as they were pushed open by white direwolf the size of a pony with blood still lightly coated around his snout. Smallfolk and traders and even guards moved aside and gave Ghost a wide berth through the hall. Lyanna was watching him wide-eyed as he came around her side and stopped briefly to give her a giant wet lick on the side of her face before climbing up the steps and sitting himself to the right of the throne, looking regal as he faced the court.

Lyanna stared at Ghost without making a sound, despite the considerable amount of drool dripping from her cheek. Jon was mortified at Ghost’s behavior, but nothing could be done about it now. _Best keep going and hope no one mentions_ that _again…_.

“You need not be so apprehensive about this request, Lady Mormont,” Jon explained, trying to use a soothing voice. “I recall a king in this land not so long ago who cursed the loyalty to the Starks shown by a girl no older than ten. A girl who, if I am not mistaken, was the first to address me by my legitimized name,” he said while raising his eyebrows in question.

Lyanna nodded sheepishly as a strong blush crept up her neck.

“Very well. Then I, Jon Stark, King in the North and the Gift, Warden of the Green Fork and Lord of Winterfell declare that, her sisters having laid aside their claims, the brave and true Lyanna Mormont and her children and heirs shall henceforth hold the lands, castles, and titles pertaining to the lordship of Bear Island.”

Lyanna ran out of the room after muttering a quick, “Thank you, Your Grace.” Jon could not believe how easy it was to botch this whole _king_ business.

Val met him in his solar after he finished reviewing the morning’s business with Sam. His oldest friend refused to discuss why he had been absent, and would make awkward attempts to change the subject whenever he brought it up. Val set to answering his questions as soon as she entered the room.

“I had some bleeding last night,” she whispered to him once they were embraced. “Not much, mind you, but it did scare me. I discussed the matter with your fat maester friend, and after an exam he assured me that our child is fine.”

“Oh, Val. Thank the gods,” Jon replied into her hair. The thought that they might lose their child felt like ice sinking in his chest.

“He scolded me, though. Apparently we are too vigorous in our love making,” Val said with glints of humor sparkling in her blue-grey eyes and her eyebrows raised high in a knowing, if incredulous expression. “It seems your cock is as large as Tormund wishes his were, which is altogether too large for us to continue being intimate until this child is born.” She spoke this news with a bitter laugh, both happy and disappointed all at once.

Jon felt flattered, if a bit remorseful. Being with Val intimately was usually the highlight of his day, but he would never do something to endanger their child. He told her such. “I fear to imagine how Sam must have delivered _that_ news.”

“Badly, if you must know. Not to mention that the entire time he examined under my skirts, he seemed to think I was going to gut him.”

“To be fair, my love, you might have. Most ladies don’t carry a knife at their hip,” Jon replied, feeling some sympathy for his friend after all.

“Only because they don’t know how to use one. I have been trying to make it fashionable for women to carry weapons themselves, which might actually happen now that ladies are visiting our court. I’ve been teaching Alys how to protect herself, but Lyanna seems to need no such effort.” Val’s eyes widened as she was struck by a thought. “Which reminds me, Alys told me how much of a fool you acted today in court with the lady. Honestly, sometimes I believe all men know nothing.”

“I did not mean to embarrass the poor girl so badly. I have no idea what overcame Ghost when he did that,” Jon retorted, causing Val to huff in exasperation.

“You honestly have no clue, do you? That is not the worst of it, you ignorant kneeler.” Val crossed her arms under her swollen bosom. “You made the hapless lass fall in love with you.”

Jon stared back at her blankly. His mouth only fell open a little in his disbelief. “You cannot be serious. I had a conversation with her in front of near a hundred people. There is _no way_ that could make her fall in love with me.”

“Oh, not the kind of love we share. It is surely more lust than anything,” Val countered, dismissing his argument with a wave of nonchalance. “You have never been a maiden newly flowered, Jon Stark, but surely you remember your first thoughts of pretty girls. It can’t be that different.”

Jon did remember, and became steadily more horrified. “I praised her for being the first to declare me king, and lauded her courage in front of all of my court. And that after Ghost licked her full on the face.” Jon sat back in his chair and placed his face in both hands. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I?”

Val gave him an affectionate look. “Yes, but you are _my_ idiot. The solution to fixing this is simple, at least.”

Jon at least anticipated her solution this time, and in a way it did make sense. Allow the girl to slake her lust for him, to get him out of her system and move on. This insight allowed him to argue against her conclusion before it was even stated. “Val, Ghost only just now noticed that Alys is pregnant. I have already felt guilty for lying with her, despite the fact that it was your idea. I wish to share no bed but your own.”

“Unfortunately for the both of us, you cannot share my bed again for many moons. I want you to stay with me for our whole lives, but I also know that no man will go that many moons without a cunt. If you cannot use mine, you will find someone else’s. Better it be girls I direct you to, that I can trust, than some girl trying to steal you away or get a bastard from you.” Val said it all as though it were as reasonable as sums or letters.

Jon wanted to tell her that he _could_ go without sex for many moons. He had gone without it for the first fifteen years of his life, and again for over a year after Ygritte died. But at the same time, he could not deny a primal part of him that wanted to fuck a comely girl, if given the chance. It was always there in the back of his mind, taunting him and interrupting his thoughts before he could suppress it again.

“I do not like this idea, Val. If you give me that much leeway, I might take matters farther than you like. I do not wish to upset you,” Jon told her.

“Of course you do not. And I am telling you that you won’t. If you are insistent about limits, then we shall set some. How many girls have you ever fucked, Jon Stark?”

Jon did not expect that question, but the answer was simple enough. “Three. Ygritte, you, and Alys.”

Val’s expression showed mild amusement. “That’s it? You poor man. We shall impose this limit, then: you may only take as many lovers as I have had myself. You should have room for…” Val made an exaggerated counting motion on her fingers. “Six more, bringing your total to nine.”

Jon tried to keep a neutral expression. Ygritte had claimed many more lovers than that, but Jon could not help but feel somewhat inadequate when he realized how much more experienced his wife was in these matters than he.

She continued, “And no bastards, for your own sake, but should one of your ladies ask a child of you for her line as Alys did, I will not begrudge it of her so long as she keeps the paternity to herself. We have too many ladies and not enough lords for every lady to get a good marriage, and you refuse to allow the Free Folk to steal them the old fashioned way.”

“… I don’t necessarily like the idea, but if this is what my Queen wants, then I am not one to object,” Jon tried to reply as safely as possible.

“It is what I want. Maybe you’ll get better at it and finally give me a better fucking than Jarl.”

Val always brought up Jarl, at first when he failed to make her come but more recently as a jest. Jon tried not to show how much it bothered him, but he suspected that Val could read him like a book.

Val sighed after a moment without a response. “While I cannot give myself to you, if a girl wants you, Jon, then take her. But let her know that it will only be during this trying time for us, and if she tries to steal you remind her that you are mine.”

“If that is what you wish, my lady,” Jon said still feeling profoundly uncomfortable with the whole situation. “I just can’t help but think that –”

“Others take you, Jon Stark, fuck the girl!” Val shouted at him.

He was not expecting that. Jon gave her his best incredulous look.

Val made a keening noise before breaking. “The last few moons, hearing you fucking Alys…. Even if she makes little noise of her own, the sounds you make while you dominate another woman … I cannot say it leaves me unaffected. I know that you are _mine_ , and that they only receive pleasure from you by _my_ good graces, and when you take me afterward it feels _so good_. If I cannot have you for half a year, at least let me experience this pleasure when we resume. It is truly what I want. So, Jon Stark, when I tell you to fuck another woman, you will fuck her as well as you possibly can, and then come back to me and give it to me even better.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and then they were kissing. Jon knew he did not deserve this woman, but he vowed to do everything he could to keep her happy. Even if it meant fucking other women.

Jon did not have to wait long. Not too long after the midday meal, Lyanna joined him in his solar as he was drafting letters.

“I hope I am not interrupting anything important, Your Grace,” she said after taking a seat to the side of his desk.

“Not at all, my lady. In fact, I was hoping to speak with you so that I might apologize for earlier…”

Lyanna interrupted his half-finished apology. “It is just, I realized that the great white wolf was _yours_ when he sat next to you, and all that that meant hit me at once. The implications were embarrassing, and I’m not as experienced in these things as my sisters.”

“Ghost is indeed mine, an albino direwolf. I raised him from when he was a pup after finding his mother dead,” Jon clarified. “He has been my loyal companion ever since then.”

“I think we both know that he is more than that, Your Grace. I saw him last night, with that elk,” Lyanna left unspoken what she meant. _She knows I am a warg. What most call a monster_. She knew something that many might whisper about but none dare accuse of him. While the Free Folk might understand, many of his other lords would not. If his true relationship with Ghost became known it would be nothing short of disaster.

“Whatever do you mean, my lady?” Jon asked, trying his best to project an air of nonchalance and confusion.

“I saw, of course. I saw you through Gwyn,” Lyanna stated with a retaliatory tone. She was clearly not impressed with his deflection, and now she looked a little miffed.

“Gwyn.” _The bear. She is the one who skinchanged into that she-bear_. In hindsight, it was painfully obvious. “I had heard from Alysane that the Mormont women were skinchangers, although she always spoke as though it were a joke.”

“Mother told us never to talk of it outside the family. Alysane just likes to live dangerously,” Lyanna confided. “But when I met Ghost in the woods, I knew that another skinchanger was nearby. I had obviously heard that your wolf was white, but I failed to make the connection until the audience, and, well…” she trailed off as blush crept back up her neck and face.

“You are the first skinchanger I have met, outside of our family, you know. There’s actually a tradition among Mormont women going back for many generations. You have heard that we rarely marry into other noble houses?” Lyanna’s thumbs twiddled in her lap as she spoke.

“Honestly, my lady, that was not something Maester Luwin discussed during my education, nor something your lord uncle confided in me in my service to the Night’s Watch,” was Jon’s earnest reply.

Lyanna took it upon herself to explain things to him. “Skinchanging is a rare trait. Our childhood stories told us of the Starks of old, who united the North through conquest not just for the land, but to marry other houses known for skinchanging in order to hoard that ability for themselves. It has been more difficult for House Mormont to sustain our abilities. There are no more Warg Kings to conquer and marry, and Bear Island is small and out of the way, besides. So, we send our bears across the Bay of Ice when it freezes over each winter and wander until we find a skinchanger among the wildlings. And, well, they become the fathers to the cousins and nieces of the primary branch of our House.”

Jon tried to follow along as best he could. Living amongst the Free Folk had taught him to never judge another’s culture just because it was different from one’s own. It seemed that the traditions in House Mormont were quite different from most other northerners, only they were very good at hiding it.

Jon decided the best way to show interest rather than judgement was with a question. “You said nieces, but not nephews. What happens to the boys born in this way?” Jon suppressed a shudder as he thought of Craster’s sons.

“We made a deal centuries ago with the clans of the Frozen Shore that the girls would belong to us, while the boys would be raised amongst their father’s folk. I probably have brothers that I will never know. Mother was always quiet when we asked,” Lyanna explained.

“But Alysane has a son that was raised on Bear Island, does she not?”

“That was a special case. By the time Torrhen was born, the clans had all left. We did not know why at the time, but clearly they had left to join Mance Rayder’s army.”

The pieces slid together like a perfect palisade in Jon’s mind. “She found Toregg in the woods of the Frozen Shore. Toregg is a skinchanger as well, that’s why she agreed to marry him so quickly and why he agreed to legitimize her children as his own.” Jon could not believe he had missed _that_ insight when he signed those decrees. “Jorelle and Lyra are both now married to families that were skinchanger petty-kings in the old tales, the Reeds and the Blackwoods. Perhaps they are skin changers still.”

“Yes, you understand!” Lyanna said, beaming.

“But what creature would Toregg skin-change into? If it is hereditary as you say, Tormund is more likely than not a skinchanger as well, and I cannot see him _not_ bragging about something like that,” Jon continued.

“Oh, umm, I think Alysane said it was a squirrel? She was disappointed at first, but she liked him much better once they met in person.” That would make sense. Tormund would never brag about skin-changing into a squirrel, no matter how large its member.

Jon pondered on the strangeness of wandering out to meet someone you otherwise knew only through the eyes of an animal to immediately procreate with them. A thought flashed through his head, and his eyes snapped to Lyanna. She sat on the side of his desk, still beaming at him. She was no longer blushing, but her cheeks were still a pleasant rosy shade. Her bear-skin cloak had been from the morning was discarded, exposing her pale shoulders.

“Lyanna, did you say that I am the first man you have met through Gwyn?” Jon asked with trepidation.

The smile on her young face broadened further. Her pupils were dilated in what Jon now recognized was clearly lust.

“Yes,” she said.

Jon knew he should explain everything now. The situation he was in, the rules he had to live by and that would govern whatever relationship they might have. Jon also wanted to feel his hands on her nubile body, and this desire won out.

Jon was not sure if he pulled her into his lap or if she leapt there herself. Jon ran his hands down her sides to her flared hips as she pulled his lower lip into her mouth. Although seven years his junior, her figure certainly felt womanly. While her face was too rounded to be truly comely, the color in her cheeks and the enthusiasm with which she kissed him was more than enough to trigger his arousal.

Lyanna _growled_ into his mouth when a hand slid under her gown to grasp her small breast, large nipples already peaked and wanting. Jon obliged by pulling down her bodice and lathing the closest one with his tongue.

“Just like Ghost did to my face this morning…. Were you claiming me then as well, Your Grace?” The timbre of her voice made it clear that the thought was beyond exciting to her. “And in front of your whole court … OH! Yes!”

Jon had not been doing anything of the sort, but with her reactions at the moment he could certainly pretend. He gave a grunt in the affirmative. Rubbing her cunt through her skirts seemed to get nice reactions as well.

“Oh please, Jon, I’ve never felt something so good before!” she squealed.

He continued as he was doing, alternately smothering her nipples and wide areolae with his mouth and hand while his other hand grinded on her crotch. Lyanna made grabbing motions towards his cock, but it was positioned firmly on the underside of her thigh and was inaccessible for the moment.

“There will be time for that later, my lady. Right now, I am claiming _you_ ,” he uttered into her breast. His left hand left her other fleshy mound and pressed over the flat of her belly, pulling her further into his grasp.

“Oh gods, _yes_. Yes, claim me for your own. My king!” she cried back.

“You will have to be more quiet, my sweet Lyanna, lest someone overhear us. We are not in the woods seen only by the gods.” Jon mitigated his chiding by sliding his right hand underneath her gown and shift and pressing it against her mound. She wore no smallclothes, a discovery which made him groan in approval. She possessed only slightly more hair than Val between her thighs. “You were expecting this, weren’t you? You wanted your king to take you right here, over his desk.”

“Nnngh-hee!” she squealed. “Yes! I want it so badly!”

She was certainly hot and wet under his fingers. He slid his middle finger between her slick walls and tried adding another, surprised at how tight she felt. He rubbed circles over her nub with the pad of his thumb, lubricated by her own moisture, and began to slowly pump his fingers in and out of her. He curled his fingers towards himself and began the forward-and-backward motion that Val had taught him. Lyanna tried her best to remain quiet, but eventually had to settle for biting down on Jon’s collar bone to conceal her moan as she came apart in his hands.

Jon parted from her delicate breasts and pulled her into a kiss, holding her face as her whole body continued to shake from the squelching fondles of his fingers inside of her. The wetness now covered his hand, her thighs, and the dress still underneath her legs. He thought it might have even soaked through his breeches in one part on his leg.

After a few moments, the shaking had stopped but his hand continued its ministrations. She pulled away from his mouth with a plea on her pouty lips.

“Please, Jon, Your Grace, please do it now. _Please_.” Her eyes were wild and desperate, as innocent and beautiful as a doe but as fierce and demanding as the bear of her sigil.

Jon chose respond not with words, but deeds. He stood up from his chair and pushed her down against his desk. With her bent over at the waist, he picked up her skirts and lifted them above her waist before rucking them underneath her wide hips as best he could. He ground his still-covered cock betwixt her arse cheeks as he worked on his laces. Lyanna certainly did not seem to mind.

She gave another yelp when he pressed his pulsing and now-bare member in the same spot, already able to feel the moisture from before lubricating the base of it where it smeared her opening.

Lyanna began to back her hips against him, sliding his cock between her surprisingly thick cheeks and up against his stomach, rolling back his foreskin in the process. “Put it inside me! Take me!”

“I’ll take you when I please, Lyanna. And no sooner,” Jon replied. The wide hips and plump arse rubbing against him was incredibly stimulating. He could feel her arsehole pucker each time the head of his prick passed over it. Jon wandered what it would feel like in there … but now was not the time for such things. Lyanna had been patient enough, and it was now time to reward her.

Jon pulled his hips back and aligned his cock at her entrance. The leaking tip of his cock met her absolutely drenched nether-lips and he pushed forward – only to slide down the outside of her slit, missing the hole.

Lyanna mewled from the motion and squeezed her wet thighs together. This had the unintentional effect of placing Jon’s cock in a warm, wet, tight cavity that pressed him up against her clit. At this point he wanted to get to into her cunt terribly, but the current position was too sweet not to spend a few strokes titillating.

After some rough humping in this position, Lyanna pulled one of his hands from its spot above her hip and pulled the two fingers that had recently been inside of her into her mouth. Her body was once again racked in the throes of orgasm, his fingers the only barrier between her screams and inevitable discovery. The prospect only seemed to make his cock harder.

Feeling fit to burst, Jon tried once again to penetrate her beautiful cunt. Using a hand this time for guidance, he held the tip firmly against her weeping opening and forced his cockhead inside.

“AH! OWW! MMMmmgh!” Lyanna cried out. Jon stopped, for her cries no longer sounded lustful so much as painful.

“Lyanna, are you alright?” he asked as he rubbed her tailbone with the base of his palm in what he hoped was a comforting motion.

“It’s no worse than what I was told to expect when my maidenhead got taken. Stay still for a moment, and I shall be fine,” was her curt response. She sounded extremely uncomfortable.

Jon had never dealt with this reaction before. He looked down and saw tiny streams of blood running down his cock, still half-impaled within her body. Jon realized that of all the women he had been with, this was his first time experiencing a maiden’s blood. He almost believed it was nothing but a myth to allow men to back out of unwanted marriages if the wedding night did not go well, but the drops sliding down his balls and dripping into the rushes showed the truth of things quite clearly.

As much as he wanted to comfort her and let the pain subside, the incredible pressure her cunt was giving his cock was too much to ignore. Without question, Lyanna Mormont was the tightest girl he had ever fucked. Even Val’s muscular cunt did not grip him as deeply as Lyanna. He started to withdraw, ever so slowly.

Lyanna grunted in response, not quite in pleasure but certainly not in pain either. Jon pushed back in to her still dank cunt and let out his own moan of approval. Eventually he was bottomed out within her depths, his cock pushing snugly against her inner walls.

“I feel so full. It’s incredible, Jon. Is it like this every time?” she asked, her eyes staring unfocused at an unlit candle on his desk.

“It can be, with the right person,” he told her as he began to move more quickly. “It can be even better, as well. Let me show you.” With that, he began to thrust into her in earnest. He was not as rough as he would have been with Val, but Lyanna clearly did not need the same tenderness he shared with Alys. He settled for a middle ground, a driving rhythm that made his desk squeak with the force of it but had her squeaking for other reasons entirely.

Lyanna, having already orgasmed twice but dealing with the trauma of having her maidenhead broken, was enjoying herself thoroughly but seemed unlikely to finish again. Jon did not hold back when his end came upon him.

Jon pushed as deeply as he could into her cunt before letting lose a hot rope of semen. Between each pulse we would pull out slightly, so that he could feel the pleasure of diving back into her each time a spurt escaped. Eventually he was spent, and he collapsed back into his chair, pulling her with him.

Lyanna sat in his lap, his cock still inside of her and their combined blood and semen dripping from where they were connected onto his chair and the floors. She still trembled like a newborn foal, and if pressed Jon would have bet against her ability to walk at the moment.

“That was absolutely wonderful, Your Grace,” she whispered quietly once she could turn her head to look at him. “I wish I could live here in Winterfell with you, if it meant we could share that every day.”

She gave him a cute smile. “Unfortunately, Bear Island will not rule itself … although, I might not be alone there for too much longer now,” she said while rubbing her tummy.

Jon raised an eyebrow at her. “How could you be sure so quickly?”

“I’m hardly sure. But Gwyn can tell by my scent which days I am at my most fertile. Today is one of those days. If the old gods have smiled on us, I might deliver a new Mormont into this world before the year is out.”

Jon worried at the thought of a girl as young as her carrying a child to term, but he knew that her sister Alysane had done it safely at a year younger. Lyanna’s hips certainly looked wide enough to bear a child without much worry.

“You must understand, Lyanna, no one must ever know who fathered this child. My lady wife is pregnant with my heir, and I will allow no one to take that title from my trueborn child,” he implored her to understand.

“Worry not, Your Grace,” Lyanna said, still somewhat out of breath. Her eyes crinkled happily. “This child was fathered by a bear in the woods.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter went on much longer than expected, effectively doubling the length of the story so far. This will not be typical, at most one other chapter of this length with most more like the previous two. This chapter also has what, in my mind, is the biggest cop-out of the story, which seemed pretty unavoidable if the goal was to keep everything amicable between Jon and Val. Otherwise, I'm pretty satisfied with how this turned out. If you liked something or didn't, let me know with a review.


	4. Meera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange girl wanders into Winterfell while returning home from a great journey. She seeks out Jon with an enigmatic message foretelling great danger as well as hope.

Jon stared ahead as the First Keep continued to rise into the sky. The builders were now using stone from the broken tower nearby to finish out the walls. Wun Wun still bumbled about, but there was no easier way for lifting the stones to where they were needed.

Galbart Glover. Roger Ryswell. Edmund Blackwood. Beren Tallhart. Howland Reed. Even the red woman, Melisandre. All of them were great individuals who paid the ultimate price in the Battle of the Crypts, which should never have happened in the first place.

Of the ten people who stormed the crypts, only four survived. Ser Kyle Condon was allowed to marry Jonelle Cerwyn and establish his own noble house for his deeds in the ensuing battle, and Sigorn of Thenn had proven himself loyal enough to hold the Barrowlands. Jon and Val each refused to discuss what happened in those depths with any others, and had no need to discuss any of it among themselves.

 _The message was clear. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell_.

Unfortunately, Winterfell had been much smaller when that saying was first uttered, and the wards laid down by Brandon the Builder or whoever truly built Winterfell only covered the area underneath the First Keep. It would be livable again soon, perhaps even before Val delivered their child, and that would be where Starks would reside in perpetuity, lest terrible mistakes be made again.

Jon’s musing was interrupted by Hallis Mollen, the only surviving guard from his father’s era serving at Winterfell. Hallis was now the much vexed captain of the guard, a post well earned by guarding Eddard Stark’s bones for years before finally returning them home.

“Your Grace, the guards have apprehended a girl attempting to enter through the north gate. We told her that petitions for appointments to our staff were heard once a sennight, but she would not be dismissed and demanded to speak with you,” Hallis explained. “She seems an honest lass, but far too insolent for you to take her on, if you were to ask me. Shall I have her more forcibly removed?”

“That will not be necessary, Hallis. I find myself in need of a distraction. I shall receive her at the entrance to the godswood,” Jon replied before making his way in that direction.

Pressures on his time had cleared up considerably.

Lyanna Mormont began her journey back to Bear Island after staying only one sennight, which had admittedly been very enjoyable. She promised to return in high summer to learn the spear from Val, although Jon suspected that her build was more suited to the mace she already wielded with impressive skill.

Alys Thenn remained at Winterfell with her small household, although now that her pregnancy was assured, no more carnal visits occurred between them.

Her Grace, Val Stark, was handling the restrictions Sam placed on her activities poorly, having to content herself with reading when she might have once practiced in the training yard. She would enlist Jon to relieve her frustration some nights, although neither found their fingers suitable replacements for what they had become accustomed to sharing.

Jon pushed these thoughts aside as he approached Tom Too and Todder holding a young woman between their arms. She was shorter than average, with a stick-slim figure and knife-shorn hair either the color of mud or mud caked in so thoroughly as to make no matter. Her piercing green eyes bore into him, scrutinizing his very soul, although they were surrounded by dark rings. The girl’s clothes were filthy, but the pack around her shoulders and pronged spear slung across her back instantly told Jon that this was no ordinary crofter’s daughter.

“This is her, Your Grace,” said Tom, cheerful in spite of the girl’s obvious displeasure at being held by her arms.

“I could tell, Tom. Perhaps you could release her? I doubt she would harm the king in his own castle.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said when she was set free. The guards twitched toward their swords when the girl drew her spear, but before they could draw them from their scabbards the enigmatic stranger had knelt with her spear on the ground in front of her.

“Your Grace of House Stark,” the girl said calmly, despite wobbling on the ground even as she knelt. “The years have passed in their hundreds and their thousands since my folk first swore their fealty to the King in the North. I swore this oath once to your brother, and I am here to say these words again, for all of my people.”

_Who is this girl? For which folk does she swear? How did she know Robb?_

“To Winterfell I pledge the faith of Greywater,” she said. “Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, Your Grace. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you.”

She lifted her head to look him once again in the eyes.

“I swear it by earth and water, by bronze and iron, by ice and fire.”

“Only one person could make that oath,” Jon admitted with no small amount of embarrassment. “Rise, Lady Meera of House Reed, and may your winters be short and your summers bountiful.”

Meera stood once again. “Winterfell’s hospitality has not improved since last I was here, Your Grace.”

“Consider yourself now welcomed to Winterfell then, Lady Reed, and know that these guards will personally attend to your every need during your stay. Isn’t that right, Todder? Tom?” The men in question bore contrite and embarrassed expressions and nodded at his order. “You look dead on your feet, though. Come, I will have a bath drawn for you from the hot springs as rooms are prepared for you, and a meal of hot bread and sausage left out with a clean set of clothes.”

Jon personally escorted her into the keep until he could pass her off to some maids. He avoided conversation, knowing that any discussion with one so exhausted would need to be repeated on the morrow. Satisfied that she was cared for, Jon sent a page to notify Hallis of Tom Too and Todder’s new duties and returned to his own activities for the day.

Meera slept through dinner. Val and Alys were excited to have another lady visiting the castle, despite them never having met the crannogwoman.

The next morning, Jon posted Dryn outside her door with orders to bring her to him in the godswood once she had broken her fast. Jon had many questions for the daughter of Howland Reed, not the least of which was how she appeared at his northern gate. These questions would need to be asked privately, for some were deeply personal.

Jon sat waiting on the stone his father would use to clean Ice in front of the weirwood. Longclaw rarely needed cleaning these days, which was probably for the best. The face of the tree wept crimson tears.

The morning sun was not far into the sky when Meera came down the path. She was still dressed in breeches and a sleeveless jerkin with patches of bronze scales sewn in, but her clothing had clearly been cleaned. She looked healthier as well, despite the bags still present under her eyes.

“Rest does you well, Lady Meera,” Jon stated. He tried to read her face as she seated herself on a nearby stone topped with moss, but her face remained neutral.

“Thank you for your assistance, King Jon,” Meera said. “I apologize for my condition yesterday. My journey has been long, and the road harsher still.”

“There is no insult for which to apologize, my lady,” explained Jon. “We had all thought you dead, and however it is that you arrived at Winterfell, from wherever you came, it is something to be celebrated. But not all tidings I have for you are good, and I would tell you of them myself.”

“If your news is that my father is dead,” Meera said with a downcast expression, “this I already know.”

Jon was not overly surprised that she knew this. While they agreed to never discuss the details, Jon had let many know that the men who never returned from the crypts below Winterfell were heroes of the highest order. If the spring weather delivered a sculptor to Winterfell, he would consider commissioning a statue in honor of each of them. As it was, any petty lord, inn keeper or bard in the North could tell you that Howland Reed had died an honorable death.

“He died a hero’s death, Meera. I do not exaggerate when I say that he saved my life, and the lives of countless men in this kingdom and all the rest throughout the world,” Jon said softly.

Tears built up in Meera’s deep green eyes, but they did not fall. “This I know as well,” she sniffed. “He died imprisoning the … the _cold one_.”

That statement _did_ take Jon by surprise. “How could you possibly know that, my lady?”

“That … is quite a long story, Your Grace. Suffice to say I know a great many things that I wish I did not.” Meera did not make to speak further. Jon did not blame her.

“Well, so that you know, your uncle Lucen has been acting as Lord of Greywater Watch. He took a Mormont girl to wife, and I hear you have a cousin awaiting your return. Your father insisted that you still lived, however, and your uncle swore before a heart tree to step aside should you or your brother return. The Neck shall be yours.” Jon said all of this to be comforting, but his words clearly had the opposite effect.

“A lordship is a poor consolation prize for losing one’s family, Your Grace,” Meera replied as she looked to her feet and wrapped her arms about her middle. “But I trust my uncle to do as he says, and if you would have me serve as your bannerwoman, then that is what I shall do. Now, what questions do you have for me, Your Grace?”

So many flew through Jon’s mind, but the one that came out first was, “How did you meet my brother? Did he stay at Greywater Watch on his way through the Neck?”

“I never met your … I never met Robb Stark, Your Grace,” she said after a small pause. “It was your brother Bran I said that oath to, before the war and winter reached Winterfell’s walls.”

Jon felt a sharp pang in his chest to be reminded of Bran, crippled and trapped at Winterfell, forced to flee after the treachery of Theon Greyjoy and then Ramsay Snow. He remembered Rickon, who had also never been found. If Meera had been with Bran at Winterfell….

“Before he died, Lord Wyman Manderly told me that he thought Bran and Rickon might be alive. He would not elaborate on his suspicions, but said that he was pursuing the leads he had,” Jon took a careful breath. “Lady Meera, can you tell me anything of my brothers? Do they live?”

Meera evaluated him critically, before responding. “I last saw Rickon to the north of Winterfell, after the sack. He was in the care of a wildling woman named Osha, who I trusted to look after him. Jojen, Hodor and I accompanied Bran elsewhere, but Jojen and Hodor are dead and Bran is with the old gods now,” Meera ended with a whisper and a glance at the heart tree. The red sap continued to flow.

 _Hodor_.

Jon had suspected as much, but it hurt no less to hear his fears confirmed. _The world was too cruel a place to Bran Stark. It has no room for boys with dreams and summer in their hearts_.

“… Once he joined them, Your Grace, and spring came again at last, I left our refuge and returned. It took a while for enough game to return to brave the journey home, but I have made it this far,” she explained.

They sat in silence for some time. Jon wept openly, but refrained from crying out or sobbing. Wind rustled through the blood red leaves of the weirwood above them for quite some time.

“My people are closely connected with the old gods, Your Grace,” Meera said with some hesitance. “This might sound preposterous to you, but I have a message from them to deliver to you.”

Jon had heard stranger tales and certainly seen things stranger still. Meera Reed did not seem the type to make such a statement in jest. “Speak this message then, Lady Reed. I trust your council in these matters, as I once trusted your father.”

With a nod, Meera said, “The message said: ‘The king of ice shall clash with the queen of fire, and their realms shall be spared blood only by the hidden seeds that he has planted.’ I know not fully its meaning, but the last part has been made known to me.”

Meera had the grace to blush as she said, “I am to bear you a child, to be made this day before the gods.”

Jon looked at her with his mouth agape. _This cannot be happening yet again_. “Surely you jest, my lady. Have you been put upon this jape by my lady wife?” Truly, it was the only explanation that made sense.

“I do not jest, King Jon. I know not who this ‘queen of fire’ is, but the old gods say that the salvation of your realm requires you scatter your seed across your kingdom. Do not mistake this for flattery – I am prone to no such thing.” If anything, Meera seemed disquieted at the prospect of breeding with him. “For your sake, I hope you have already begun, for I know not how much time you have to prepare.”

Jon blushed furiously. “That is not something you need worry over, my lady.”

They stared at each other for a moment, each at a loss for what to do next. The leaves rustled once more.

“We must act soon, Your Grace, lest we miss the timing,” she said, appearing determined.

Meera stepped off her stone and strode to stand before him. “I know I am not as comely as your wife the queen, Your Grace,” she said. “But my mother taught me the ways to prepare men for doing their duty.”

Before he could protest, Meera had dropped to her knees and was undoing the laces of his breeches. Her small hands were deft, and before Jon could react his cock was out in the open, half-hard in spite of himself and twitching.

 _This feels wrong_ , Jon thought. His body began to respond instantaneously when she wrapped her thin wet lips around his shaft and licked at the underside of its head, but Jon took no pleasure from it, only shame. It had been too long, and even her amateur stimulation rapidly caused the reaction she sought. When Meera began to move her head back and forth along his length, tongue flicking as she went, Jon let out a groan and pulled her head away from him as gently as he could.

 _I had always thought to have that done by someone who cared for me, not as some necessary procedure_. Thoughts of Ygritte and the cave flashed through his head. He decided to voice his concerns.

“Meera, this feels wrong to me,” he told her. She looked back at him, frustrated.

“This is not how I envisioned losing my maidenhead either, _King Stark_ , but sacrifices must be made for the good of the realm. I am certain of this, or I should not be doing this with you _at all_ ,” Lady Reed clarified. “If I am to suffer through it, you must do the same.”

“I would have neither of us suffer, my lady. If we must do this, then let us each take pleasure from the act,” he said. She looked at him for clarification, so Jon proceeded to remove his clothes, boots and all.

Meera followed his example and disrobed as well. Her breeches were loose about her waist but still had to be forced over her thin hips. Her breasts were small things, barely there at all. When she was bare before him, Jon laid down on his back next to the steaming pool before the heart tree.

“If you must prepare me, then it is only right I should prepare you as well. Lie down on top of me, and we shall prepare each other together,” Jon explained.

Meera seemed agreeable to this, and lay down next to him with her head opposite his and rolled until her stomach was pressed against his, their hips aligned with each other’s heads and mouths.

Jon felt her take his once-again-flaccid cock into her mouth and resume her ministrations. As she did this, Jon took time to examine the body a breath away from his face. Meera’s buttocks were skinny but shapely when presented in such a manner, and the brown curls on the mound above her cunt did little to hide her fleshy inner lips or the hood concealing the area Jon knew would give her pleasure.

Jon braced his left hand across the small of Meera’s back to hold her in place as he brought his right forefinger to stroke down her folds. He placed a kiss over her center, and then ran his tongue down the path his finger had traced. The motion was repeated until small bits of lubrication gathered about her opening. Jon collected some of that moisture on the tip of his tongue and brought it down to the hood at her apex, swirling around it in soothing motions. At the same time, the fingers of his right hand began to play at her opening, massaging her inner lips and stretching her around his first knuckle.

Meera moaned placidly around his cock. In paying attention to her cunt, he had lost track of what she was doing to him, but the change in sensation drew his attention back between his own legs. Her tongue was surprisingly nimble; after pushing back his foreskin, it had wrapped around his shaft, a second layer of tension past her lips which continued to stroke him up and down. A deft hand rolled his balls between delicate fingers, and Jon could not say he controlled his lust at her actions.

Moans began to escape the pair in mounting frequency as they learned each other’s bodies. Jon managed to work a full finger inside of the crannogwoman, and dragged his wetted lips across the pinnacle of her cunt to draw the hood away from that place Ygritte had drawn his mouth to when he first learned how to give a lord’s kiss. His attentions were careful as he tested how much attention she could handle, but before long she began to shake in his hands and buck her hips up as her back arched involuntarily.

She paused her work and removed him from her mouth to catch her breath. “P-Ahhh … that was … unexpected.”

“I could say the same of you. I have never been … stimulated in that way, although I had thought of it once,” Jon told her. “But now, I think, is when this will be easiest for you. We should begin.”

Meera agreed and stood up, allowing him to reposition himself. The detritus of the godswood floor had not made sympathetic bedding, and his back itched terribly as splinters and dirt fell away from him. Not wanting to subject Meera to the same fate, he looked for other options.

 _A tree will have rough bark, and I see no feather beds here…_. _There are no moss beds large enough either. Although, she might be light enough…_.

Without taking the time to consult the skinny girl, he grabbed her around the back of her thighs and lifted. Meera lost her balance and flailed her arms to grab at the closest stable object, which happened to be Jon’s head. Once recovered, she enveloped his neck in an embrace and locked her heels behind his hips.

She seemed to understand their position, and looked up at him expectantly. Jon nodded and lifted her hips until the tip of his cock rested nestled against her womanhood. His grey eyes lingered on her green ones as he lowered her body into a meld with his own.

Meera suppressed a cry as her maidenhead was breached, seeming to bite the inside of her cheek to distract herself.

“I know this is not ideal, Lady Meera, but I hope this will suffice.”

“I can endure, King Jon. Do what you will,” was her strangled reply.

Jon readjusted his grip on her arse, giving it a small squeeze as he lifted her up his burgeoning shaft before letting her drop back down. Her cunt, while slick on the outside, was more difficult to traverse the deeper his cock sank in, and his strokes stayed relatively slow and shallow to compensate.

Eventually, be it from blood or arousal, she became better lubricated. Jon began to pull his hips back when he lifted hers up, allowing for greater force with his thrusts. Meera’s head rested on his shoulders and her breath washed over his neck, allowing him to gauge her response. When her breathing hitched he adjusted their angle or speed, and he tried his best to continue whatever he did when her breathing hastened.

The slapping noise of her buttocks smacking against his thighs echoed off the ancient ironwoods of the godswood. Steam and occasional bubbles rose from the pool, and yet more red sap poured down the face of the heart tree.

“There, my sweet girl, does that not feel good for you?” Jon asked.

“Mmm….” was Meera’s verbal reply, but she pulled her head away from his shoulder to look upon him once more. Jon opened his mouth to ask further, but she silenced him with an unexpected kiss. Compared to the passionate kisses he shared with Val or Lyanna, or the sweet but meaningful kisses Alys gave him, this was wholly innocent, filled with affection if not longing or desire.

The kiss caught Jon completely off guard, and before he knew it his release was upon him. Meera’s breathing and small moans were still building, so Jon powered through his orgasm to see hers through as well. A few more moments of pumping into her cunt brought it out, a languid tension running through her slim body until she felt boneless in his arms.

“There, my lady, it is done.”

They shared silence again as they dressed, although this felt much more companionable than their previous lapses in conversation had. Whatever awkwardness lay between them, it had been soothed for now by their actions.

As Meera helped brush the dirt off his back, Jon remembered the other question he wanted answered. Why he truly wanted this conversation to be in the godswood, rather than in a solar where a servant might hear. It had only slipped his mind when hope of hearing of his lost brothers eclipsed it.

“Lady Reed, there is something else I must ask of you. Before your father and I went down into the crypts, he hinted that he knew something of my mother. I never had a chance to discuss it with him, and her identity has been denied to me by fate a second time,” Jon clarified. “Is there any chance he told you about the end of the war, when it was just your father and mine? About who my mother truly was?”

“I … I suppose that is a tale you are entitled to hear, Your Grace,” she said. “But it _is_ a long one. Tell me, what do you know of Lyanna Stark?”

Their conversation in the godswood continued for a long time after that. Jon shed tears as the truth was laid out in front of him, so obvious in retrospect that it pained him. Equally devastating was the loss of the only family he had truly known, even if they were all dead or missing. But Eddard Stark had only ever called him _of his blood_ , never his _son_ , as long as Jon remembered. He had only been hearing what he wanted to hear.

 _All of that deception, from the most honest man I knew, all to keep me safe._ Jon pitied his uncle then, and wondered if he would have had the strength to estrange his beautiful and loyal lady wife for the sake of his sister’s love child. _If it were Arya, I suppose I would have promised her anything. I have already almost died once for her, after all_.

Jon lamented never knowing much of the girl he thought of as his tragic aunt, so Meera told him another story that she had once told Bran, about the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Jon’s tears turned to laughter as he heard of the great deeds that his mother had performed, but he became solemn once again when he realized that they might have directly lead to Robert’s Rebellion and all of the death and suffering that followed.

He had much to discuss with Val this evening. Not only these revelations – Meera’s ‘preparation’ had reminded him of another way he might be close with his wife during their forced abstinence.

It was with mixed feelings that Jon and Meera departed the godswood, each enjoying their first opportunity to speak fondly about the family members they had lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I still can’t believe this is the first use of the Jon Snow/Meera Reed tag. They are the same age, and their parents were so close to each other! Not to mention, in another timeline without a war, House Reed might have been Jon’s best chance at a highborn marriage due to the Reed’s close relationship with the Starks and Howland’s personal history with Jon in his infancy. In another timeline, Jon might be the first person she meets as she returns south from the cave, assuming that ever actually happens. I understand that all of her Stark interaction is with Bran, but she probably sees him as a younger brother more than anything. Well, enough ranting. I hope you enjoyed it!


	5. Wynafryd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meera leaves yet another enigmatic request upon her departure. A marriage at Winterfell sparks new goals in repairs, and the Manderly women come to visit along with new supplies from White Harbor.

Once Val met Meera, the two became fast friends. Val referred to her as a ‘southron spearwife’ and was impressed by her knowledge of the old ways. It was with heavy hearts that Jon and Val said farewell to the crannogwoman, who eventually needed to return to her family home at Greywater Watch.

Before she said her farewells, however, Meera pulled Jon aside one day in his solar. She spoke of a hidden package that needed to be delivered to him with both urgency and discretion.

“I brought it as far as the Gift, but I would not have been able to keep it concealed in more populous lands. It is a gift to you, King Jon, from a … relative, of yours. I have hidden it in Queenscrown, under a false stone in the high chambers. Send only men you trust to retrieve it, and do not draw attention to it until you have examined it yourself,” she had said in a whisper.

“Can you not tell me what it is?” Jon asked. It sounded like a perfectly reasonable request.

“If it is not returned to you, it is best that you have no knowledge of it at all,” Meera said. “I would not lie to you in this, Your Grace.”

Despite his misgivings, Jon trusted Meera, perhaps more than he should. After all that she had told him, the stories of their parents and the true identity of his mother, Jon might have believed anything she said.

A day after her departure, Jon pulled Grenn and Pyp aside from their guard duties. Despite their simple upbringings and poor horsemanship, they were Jon’s eldest surviving friends, and he knew he could trust them more than any other candidates for such a quest. They were sent out walking with a mule up the kingsroad to retrieve whatever mysterious object Meera had waiting for him, with strict orders not to open its packaging or divulge their purpose to anyone while on the road. It would take them at least two months without proper mounts, even with a mule to carry their kit, but Jon would not trust any others as he trusted them.

With that business taken care of, life returned to relative normalcy at Winterfell. A new kennelmaster was found from among the smallfolk, as well as a master of horse. Jon received a message from Larence Hornwood, now gaining the confidence of his sworn men, requesting Jon’s approval of a match between him and Lady Eddara Tallhart, the Master of Torrhen’s Square. Jon was inclined to deny the request, knowing that a new Master for that seat would have to be found, but he was eventually swayed by a letter from the lady in question pleading to be away from her childhood home. She wrote of the terrors she endured listening to the ironborn occupiers rape her mother, repeatedly, in the room next to hers before killing her as the men lead by Robett Glover came to lift the occupation. Apparently Larence, who had been fighting with the Glover men, had been the one to comfort her in the gruesome aftermath, and they had stayed in close contact ever since.

Jon decided to invite both of their families to the castle to settle the issue. While still largely strangers to one another, Larence and Eddara had enjoyed the words shared between them by raven and quickly warmed to each other’s company. If Jon truly wanted to stop the marriage, he might not have been able to after only a few days as their hosts. Eventually it was agreed upon that Eddara’s cousin Brandon would succeed her upon her cloak changing colors, which Jon allowed in no small part because of the sacrifice made by his younger brother Beren Tallhart during the Battle of the Crypts.

With all parties satisfied, a wedding was planned for the next moon to be held in Winterfell’s godswood, the first of spring. The Glover family visited shortly for the wedding, Robett and Larence having been raised together and good friends besides. Val doted on Gawen and Erena Glover, small children of six years and four respectively, which surprised Jon nearly as much as it warmed his heart. Kyle and Jonelle Condon came as well, but most other lords were too far away to arrive by the scheduled date.

The castle was not completely repaired, with black markings covering some walls showing signs of the fire and stones still displaced from the sack, but Winterfell certainly looked to be recovering, something Jon was happy to show his sworn lords. His only embarrassment was the state of the glass gardens, which Lady Conden lamented as she passed by on her way out of the godswood. Apparently they had made quite the impression on her before the war, in her frequent visits to Winterfell as the daughter of Eddard Stark’s closest bannerman.

That led Jon to place a large order for glass panes that would fit the iron frame of the glass gardens from a glassmaker in White Harbor. The confirmation of the order was received along with another letter, this one from Wynafryd Manderly requesting Winterfell’s hospitality for her and her sister.

When Jon told Val of their upcoming guests her response was enthusiastic. The swell of their child in her belly prevented them from pleasing each other simultaneously now, but Val made it clear that should one of the Manderly sisters proposition him, he had encouragement to follow through, so long as she was actually able to listen this time.

Jon was not nearly so optimistic, but he assured her that her request would be given consideration, especially in light of the prophecy delivered by Meera.

Two sennights later, the Manderly women had reached Castle Cerwyn by barge up the White Knife and were _en route_ by caravan up the King’s Road. Having been notified in time to prepare, Jon and his household met them in the courtyard upon their arrival.

Wynafryd Manderly, the heiress to White Harbor, was a classic beauty full in the bloom of womanhood at two-and-twenty years of age. Her long brown hair was drawn into a braid over one shoulder, laid across her blue-green linen dress thus drawing attention to her tremendous bust. Even Val’s pregnancy swollen breasts could not compare to their size, despite the lady’s obvious attempt at conservative clothing.

Her sister Wylla followed her out of the wheelhouse, her hair immediately drawing attention with its shocking green color. The woman had a shapely face with light blonde eyebrows indicating her true coloring, lighter than her sister, as well as taller and overall more lithe of form, though her breasts were still far larger than average. Her sea-green dress matched her hair.

Jon could say with certainty he was glad they did not resemble their late lord grandfather overmuch.

“The ladies Manderly, be welcomed to Winterfell!” Jon said as they approached. Having seen a recent increase of traffic in the castle with the progression of spring, he was finally beginning to feel more comfortable with these proceedings.

“The honor is ours, Your Grace,” answered the younger sister Wylla, to Jon’s surprise. “House Manderly will be forever grateful to House Stark. Thank you for so graciously accepting our visit.”

Wynafryd made formal introductions for the two of them, introducing them to Val in particular.

“We have heard much of King Jon’s wife of the Free Folk in White Harbor. Should you ever wish to visit the largest city in the kingdom, we would be happy to host you there, Your Grace,” Wynafryd said directly to her.

The effort seemed to please Val for its directness, more than anything.

Neither of the ladies cowered away when Ghost meandered up to the occasion, mouth still bloody from a fresh kill, and Wylla even scratched him behind the ears. Jon considered this a good sign.

Following their official welcome, the sisters left for a respite with Alys Thenn and the Queen, congratulating them both on their swollen bellies.

Jon went elsewhere with Othell Yarwyck to oversee the unloading and installation of the expensive glass that would hopefully keep the castle fed, come next winter.

That evening after dinner, the noble guests retired to the queen’s solar for conversation. The Manderly girls had met Alys as children, all being from noble houses in the North and of similar age. Jon had met the two of them briefly, once, but was kept from interacting with them much due to his bastardry.

They were pleasant to talk to though, and made no issue of Jon’s legitimization or Val’s own culture. Wylla even asked about the dagger at Val’s hip, and was rewarded with an offer for a custom-made one of her own.

Before long, they had dropped the ‘my ladies’ and ‘Your Graces’ and were speaking as old friends. The mulled wine likely had something to do with it, but Jon was enjoying himself and did not mind. It still felt odd for him to be addressed as ‘Your Grace’, although slipping out of his manners altogether was against his nature.

Occasionally though, the group turned to serious topics of conversation.

“When I first met your lord grandfather at Winterfell, after we retook it, he told me that my younger … brother, Rickon, might yet live,” Jon inquired of the Manderly sisters. “However, he would not elaborate on his plans, and by the time I returned from the Twins he was dead. Lord Wylis knew not of his plans when I asked him by letter, but perhaps you two might know of it?”

“Grandfather never told me anything. He had plans within plans, or so I hear, but I was never his favorite,” Wylla said with a pouty expression and her blonde eyebrows knit together. The glare she shot at her sister only intensified at Wynafryd’s response.

“Well, actually, um, Your Grace….” Wynafryd stuttered as a blush came over her cheeks. “We captured a mute along the coast, sometime after Winterfell was sacked. He could not read or write, but he could draw, and was obviously trying to tell us something. His drawings were awful, though, and we had to teach him letters before we got anything useful out of him.”

“We learned that his name was Wex,” she continued, “and that he had been a squire for Theon Greyjoy at Winterfell. He told us about how Theon killed two miller’s boys because he could not find the Starks after they escaped, and how later he saw them come out of hiding in the crypts. He followed the small one all the way to the sea and overheard the boy’s keeper, a wildling woman – I’m sorry, Val, that _is_ what he said – saying that she would take him to Skagos.”

“Skagos!” Jon shouted, louder than he meant to. It certainly made sense. Ghost occasionally thought of his wild brother, off somewhere that smelt of salt and hunting strange goats with one sharp horn. _Unicorns, I suppose_. “Why was this not told to me sooner?”

Wynafryd became even more flustered. “Well, you see….” She took a calming breath and began again. “The shores of Skagos are treacherous even in good weather, and almost impossible to navigate during winter storms. White Harbor had ships and captains aplenty, but we could not trust some merchant to find our king’s heir and return him to safety, not after the betrayal by the Boltons and Freys. There was too much of a risk of Rickon being handed over to the Boltons or the Lannisters, or worse.”

“I can think of little worse than being given to Lannisters, Wynafryd. But please, continue.”

“So, by this point some of those _seven-damned_ Freys had come to us, making all kinds of demands.” The mention of these Freys in particular seemed to give Wynafryd the desire to hurl. “Grandfather pandered to them, because if he did not then the Lannisters would have killed father rather than return him, no matter how much gold we offered. So when Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight that Stannis named his Hand showed up, grandfather decided to hedge his bets. He faked an execution to show the Lannisters his good faith, and father was returned to us. But really, knowing Davos Seaworth to have been a smuggler most of his life, he sent Lord Seaworth to Skagos to seek Rickon, on the condition that should he be returned alive and with his wolf, White Harbor would declare for Stannis.”

At this, Wylla interjected, “Wait, Lord Seaworth is alive!? And you did not tell me!”

She stood up so fast her chair fell back away from her and screamed at her sister. “We have been free of our captors for years now, and you did not think to tell me that the bravest man I have ever met still lives!”

Wynafryd tried to appease her irate sister. “It was not like that, Wylla! We never saw him again. He could have fled back south, for all I know, or his had his ship broken against the rocks of Skagos! And after the mountain clansmen crowned Jon King in the North, we might have become usurpers if we –”

The woman threw her hand over her mouth, terrified of what she had just said. Her wide eyes scanned the room, judging the reactions of Jon and Val in particular. All were silent, even the still seething Wylla, who now looked frightened as the implications of what her sister had admitted to dawned on her.

Jon did not know what to think of her admission. _I suppose I cannot blame them. If Rickon were found, Robb’s will would have left the kingdom to him rather than me. I would gladly step aside for my little brother … but they have no way of knowing that. And they had no right not to tell me._

“This is the true reason why I was never told, then,” Jon said as calmly as he could manage. “You feared my wrath should I hear you have been searching for my brother, who has a better claim.”

Jon let his words sink in as Wynafryd’s face became remorseful and Wylla’s returned to ire, seemingly still directed at her sibling.

“While I understand your caution, Wynafryd, I loved all of my siblings dearly, and would never harm anyone who wished to reunite us again. My crown and kingdom can go to the Others for all I care, if I could only have my family back!”

Jon could not remember when he had started shouting, or when he had stood, but he did notice when Val comforted him with an embrace from his side. His scarred palm clenched and unclenched into a fist. “I know that you had the best intentions, but I wish for any further developments to be relayed to me immediately, should Rickon be found. Is that clear, my ladies Manderly?”

With that, the group retired early for the night.

The next day was little better, with the Manderly sisters sitting at opposite ends of the table from each other at meals, and refusing to be a part of the same conversations. Jon felt awful for his part in all of it, but could not decide on the best way to make amends.

Val suggested the sisters be given spears and told to work out their differences, although Jon suspected that this was in jest. Alys, having grown up with only brothers, recommended tourney swords instead.

That night, Jon and Val retired to the queen’s solar alone. Jon reminisced about the day before, chastising himself for losing his temper. Iron Emmett had beaten the snot out of him today, making him both frustrated at himself and terribly sore.

It came as a surprise to both of them when Wynafryd Manderly entered their chambers after a bashful knock. Her gown tonight was violet silk, and her hair was pulled up in a style that was elaborate for a Northman but would still be simple by southron standards.

“I wish to apologize, Your Graces. I have reflected on my actions, and see now how they were wrong,” she said as she looked up at Jon. “My father Lord Wylis knew not of these plans, for grandfather involved few in his plotting. But I did know of it, all of it, and I should not have feared to let you know.” Tears formed in her soft blue eyes. “I remember seeing you play with your other brother, Brandon, out the window as Wylla and I were kept sewing with the Septa and your sisters. You involved him even when Robb and that awful Greyjoy boy wanted to leave him behind. You are a true and loving brother, and I should have remembered that.”

“Yes, you should have,” Jon said. “But I also had no right to lose my temper last night. I must needs apologize as well. After all, you have put me closer to finding Rickon than any other yet has. I know you will continue to seek him out, and surely you deserve a boon for your leal service. Tell me, my lady, what might you ask of me?”

“I-I ask nothing from you, Your Grace –” Wynafryd said before Val cut her off.

“While we have enjoyed the pleasure of your company, I am not so naïve as to think that kneelers make such long visits without purpose. In the true north, we would only travel so far to make war or steal mates,” Val said as though she were discussing a minor bit of trivia, and not accusing a highborn lady of being either a traitor or wanton.

“… Very well, I suppose it is something like that.” Wynafryd went on to explain her situation, once she was seated with a glass of mulled wine in hand. “My father’s imprisonment has left him sickly. He is still sharp of mind, but his hands now shake, making it hard for him to ride his horse or wield a sword and impossible for him to write. I have been assuming a more active role in the governance of our lands, which has brought certain issues to a peak.”

“I had no idea Wylis was affected so terribly. Will you need a stronger steward?” Jon asked, trying to be helpful.

“I’m afraid a steward would not truly fix the problem, your – Jon. You see, many of the knights Stannis left behind are now vying for my hand, and it is beginning to cause violence in the Merman’s Court.”

Jon could picture it all too well.

After the death of King Stannis, a thousand or so knights and men at arms from his southron army were stuck in the North. Jon allowed them to either return to their queen at Castle Black, or fall into service with him with the promise of free passage back south out of White Harbor, once Winterfell was seized from the Boltons.

Many of those men attempted to return to the Wall, loyal to the King’s heir Shireen. She had succumbed to greyscale by the time that group made it, and many of those men died of the plague. Those devoted to the red god, or the red priestess, stayed with Jon once Melisandre declared him the true _Azor Ahai_. Jon might have believed it to be rubbish, but they did not need to know that if it meant they would fight for him. Still others, with little hope of retaking their own lands, chose to swear their service to the King in the North to be awarded holdfasts of their own. The final few were those who accepted Jon’s offer and left for White Harbor once the battle was done.

Some of _those_ men, mostly those faithful to the seven, decided to swear their service to Lord Manderly in order to settle his lands, feeling more comfortable with a lord who followed their own gods.

“And now, many southron knights, eager for a chance to improve their station and gain preference from their liege lord, now seek the hand of his eldest daughter and heir,” Jon said aloud. “Is that not the way of it, my lady?”

Wynafryd nodded. “I’m afraid so. They often try to be sweet in my presence, but I know they are coarse and rowdy otherwise, and have put bastards in a number of my serving girls. I also know that they want my huge tracks of land, and while I never expected a love match, I will not allow House Manderly to be extinguished by some upstart like Narbert Grandison of Old Castle.”

“What boon is it that you want from me, Wynafryd?” Jon asked.

“All I ask for is a guarantee that I shall be the master of my own lands. After all, Eddara Tallhart was a lady who was the Master of her house in her own right, and now I hear that her male cousin rules Torrhen’s Square in her stead, all for the sake of a marriage to a lord you have been working hard to support,” Wynafryd explained. “Even ignoring my troublesome southron suitors, there are many Manderly cousins within White Harbor that will press a claim once my father passes. I will not be married off to some other lord to appease Your Grace, only for a cousin to rule in my stead,” she finished with strength.

Val was the first to respond. “Jon Stark knows that women are just as capable as men of ruling lands and holdfasts. Eddara asked herself to be removed from that place, for her own reasons. He has granted Lyanna Mormont the lordship of Bear Island in perpetuity, and Alys Thenn will be allowed to rule Barrowton until her child comes of age, or longer if she so chooses. We of the Free Folk follow strength, and we know that strength exists in women as well as men.”

The blue flecks in Val’s grey eyes flashed in the fire light. “You are a strong woman, and more cunning than most, Wynafryd Manderly. As Val Stark, Queen in the North and the Gift, I confirm to you and your children the lordship of White Harbor and the lands around the White Knife, regardless of gender, so long as you and yours remain loyal retainers of House Stark.”

Wynafryd looked surprised at first, and then shot a confused look to Jon. “I am happy to hear this, Your Graces, but does King Jon Stark approve?”

Val laughed at the question, before replying herself. “If he wanted to say no, I shall change his mind. Women have ways to change the minds of men, Wynafryd,” Val said with a smirk.

The Manderly woman looked at her feet. “I’m sure not all men can be affected in this way, Your Grace…” She became quiet. “Although I suppose I shall have to settle for one, eventually. If my children are to inherit New Castle and White Harbor, a husband will be involved in one way or another.”

Val’s smile could have made a shadowcat feel like prey. “Perhaps there is yet more House Stark can do for you in this matter. Many suitors among the kneelers would be put off by a child in your belly, and even more should the king legitimize that child as your heir, correct?”

“I suppose so, and if the king were to grant me this I would be even more indebted to him,” Wynafryd whispered now, as though afraid she would be chastised for admitting to want such a thing. “But I know very few men I would trust to help me in such an endeavor.”

Val gave Jon a meaningful look. “Well, I am suddenly rather tired. I shall be in my bed chamber, if you two have any need of me.” With that said, she promptly got out of her chair and left, taking her wine with her and shutting the door behind her.

Wynafryd tilted her head in confusion at the closed door. It was an odd gesture to make, but it was strangely endearing to Jon, especially when a stray lock of hair fell across her cheek to hang by her long neck. Jon could feel his mouth water and his blood begin to rouse.

“That was rather strange, was it not?” she said, turning to face him.

“My wife provides you with an opportunity to answer a personal question in privacy. Wynafryd, would I be a man that you could … trust, with such a thing as we discussed earlier?” Jon felt the question poorly worded, but his heart hammering in his ears was quite distracting. Almost as much as the way the silk of her skirts shifted as she moved her legs.

“I – by the seven, are you offering yourself?” she asked in disbelief. “Now?”

“Only if you would have me, my lady,” Jon replied. “I would not force this on you, although should you decline you might very well disappoint the queen….”

Wynafryd’s eyes locked with his, their gentle blue hue filled with resolve. “Yes, I believe I can trust you, Jon.” She rose from her chair and sashayed toward him, her full hips swaying all the way. “House Manderly has known for generations that the Starks of Winterfell are our strongest champions, and will always nurture us in our times of greatest need.”

Wynafryd kneeled down before him, knees protected from the stone floors by a fur rug. “And in turn, we will always give our service to House Stark.” She slid her hands up the opposite arms to her neck, where she slipped dainty fingers under the shoulders of her silk gown and the shift underneath and began to slide them off. A cascade of violet fabric trickled across her chest, exposing the largest breasts Jon had ever seen bare. They were still supported by the laces in the back, which only enhanced their effect on Jon.

“I hope my body pleases you, King Jon,” she said as she simpered and began to undo the laces on his breeches. “The septas say it is sinful, and it certainly seems to entice my suitors.”

When the at last they were loosened, his cock sprang free, erect and incredibly stiff at the prospect of being inside a cunt once again. “Not that they have been able to experience it as you will now,” she amended.

Jon meant to reply with some witty remark, but all thought left him when she lowered her mouth over the head of his cock, her tongue pushing the foreskin clear of its head before taking him all the way down to the base. She gagged fleetingly before drawing back, leaving his spit-soaked member shining in the firelight. Jon brushed the stray lock of hair away from her face and smiled at her sweetly.

He was then amazed when she took her own breasts in hand and wrapped the huge mounds around his length. The slickness of her saliva, mixed with the natural lubrication leaking from his tip, allowed her to slide them up and down his length. They were soft and gave way easily to his rigid cock, but the constant sliding motion she provided was heavenly.

“Gods, Wynafryd – uggh, mmmmnn,” Jon struggled to express his pleasure.

“That’s it, my king. You may enjoy yourself. I am quite sure anyone who appears as … virile as you will be able to come again before too long.” Jon could only moan in assent.

One arm gripped on his chair for stability, Jon leaned forward slightly to run his other hand down Wynafryd’s back, finding the laces to her shift and beginning to undo them as deftly as he could, considering the situation.

For her part, Wynafryd shifted his cock away from her breast bone, now using the peaks of her bosom to massage his cock, rubbing her large pink nipples around its veiny exterior. The new position also allowed her to take his cockhead into her mouth once again on the down stroke of her breasts, where she would tease the opening at the very tip with her graceful tongue.

When the sensation became too much and Jon could feel his release approaching, he attempted to warn her, but this only lead to faster teasing until it all became too much. As he started spurting his seed within her mouth, she moved her lips to the ridge of his head and drew them back and forth in that sensitive area, her tongue continuing its exquisite caress.

“By the old gods! Fuck!” he shouted, completely unable to keep the vulgarity in check.

When Jon could next remember, he saw Wynafryd with his seed in hand, spitting it out of her mouth and wiping it among the rushes, her ample arse pointed straight at him. The sight went a long way to resuming the blood flow to his cock once again, but something about the situation bothered him.

“My lady, I have known other women before. What you just did … you could not have done that so expertly on your first attempt,” Jon said, remembering Meera’s clumsy motions in the godswood. Wynafryd’s head snapped around at that, eyes narrowing in accusation. Jon realized his error and tried to save himself, saying, “I am not one to judge, it was just an observation. It was delightful, and I am extremely grateful….”

Her expression deflated, but she walked away from him to sit on the furs in front of the burning hearth. Staring into the fire, she said, “To be truthful, I did that more for myself than you.”

Jon did not entirely understand her meaning, but she seemed to be in a commiserating sort of mood, so he joined her on the floor and put an arm about her bare shoulders. Her skin was creamy and soft, more so than any other woman he had felt, and he enjoyed grazing it in broad strokes across her back. Eventually, she spoke again.

“After the murder of uncle Wendel, Walder Frey sent three sons of his to White Harbor to return his bones. They came telling all sorts of lies, saying that King Robb had turned into a wolf-beast and murdered my uncle and many others at the wedding feast,” she told him darkly. Her creased brows glared hard into the fire. “They forced grandfather to house them and feed them, and he did whatever they might ask to prove loyal enough for the Lannisters to return my father. When they asked for betrothals to Wylla and I, he had no choice but to accept.”

Jon did not like where this was going, and so on impulse kissed her lightly on the temple. It seemed to sooth her some, although the darkness on her face remained. “My husband to be, Rhaegar Frey, was an absolutely disgusting man. He was already a widower with three children, and was fat and lecherous besides.”

Wynafryd’s head found its way onto Jon’s shoulder, and he did not reject her that comfort. “I knew of grandfather’s true loyalties, and helped him execute many of his plans. But when Rhaegar asked to sample my body, to ‘ensure its adequacy,’ there was little we could do to stop him. He forced me to do what I just did to you, saying it was ‘the only good use for tits as large as mine.’ Then he made me spread my legs for his skinny cock and nearly smothered me when he collapsed once he was done. The worst part was that I had to pretend I enjoyed it afterward, and come at his call whenever he bid, for the sake of my father’s life.”

“That is absolutely horrible, Wynafryd,” Jon said, unable to keep quiet any longer. “I know that the Freys sent to White Harbor were never found, but rest assured that should they turn up I will give him justice.”

“There is no need for that, Jon,” she said with a mischievous smirk. “When Rhaegar left New Castle, grandfather made him a pie. I am told it was quite delicious.”

Jon looked back at her blankly.

“I do not see how making someone a pie will bring a man to justice, my la–” Jon began.

“It is not important now, King Jon, but rest assured that justice was _served_ and that I will not be troubled by the specter of Rhaegar Frey, or any of his brethren,” she interrupted. “I am told your sack of the Twins was most thorough.”

She smiled sweetly at him again; her eyes squinted in an endearing way.

“Regardless, I had the idea to do that to you to show myself that my body can be used to give good and kind men more pleasure than evil ones, a goal in which I think I was successful,” Wynafryd said with a grin. “By your reaction, you seemed to enjoy my ‘tits’ quite a lot.”

“It makes me want to enjoy the rest of you even more,” he said in response, and congratulated himself on a smooth transition. The arm around her back trailed along her far ear as his lips closed around the near one, allowing him to nibble softly at the unsuspecting cartilage there.

“Eep!” was Wynafryd’s succinct reply. She seemed to agree though, and began to attack his neck with her lips as her fingers worked to undo his doublet. They ended up standing again to disrobe each other, and Jon could not say he minded her huge bosom pressing against his naked chest as he finished off the laces of her shift and guided her silk dress to the floor with his hands across her shapely hips.

Wynafryd had plump arse cheeks to match her breasts, and although her stomach was doughy it was shapely and far from fat. Her thighs were wide and giving, but her lower legs and arms were thin and dainty. Her long neck and round face and eyes gave her an altogether beautiful appearance, especially framed as it was by her soft brown hair.

She seemed to enjoy gazing on his hard and muscular body as much as he enjoyed gazing at her.

“Could I be the one on top, Jon?” she asked, not at all shy as she stood gloriously nude before him. “Rhaegar was always the one in control, but I have heard that women of the Free Folk sometimes sit astride their men.”

Jon was very well acquainted with this process, and let her know. He lay down on the fur rug with the fire behind his head and guided her on top of him. The flickering light cast small, dancing shadows in the small folds made by the skin of her breasts and middle. That, and the sparkle reflected in her eyes as she gazed down at his form, completed the arousal Jon needed to move on to their coupling.

Wynafryd rose from her position and used her elegant hand to guide his cock to the now dripping entrance to her cunt. Once in position, she lowered herself down and Jon moaned as the wet lips engulfed his shaft.

He allowed her to set their rhythm however she wished, caressing her thighs and breasts and arse as it suited him but avoiding enough pressure to imply coercion. At times she would bounce up and down, while at others she would sink until he was hilted within her before grinding the apex of her cunt forward and backward along his pubic bone. Once, she even rotated her hips in a circle above his, causing them both to moan in delight.

Eventually though, she settled on leaning forward to kiss him while angling her hips at her lower back and pumping her arse straight up into the air, swallowing his cock whole with every descent accompanied by a _smack_ as their flesh collided.

“Jon, yes, it feels so much better this way,” she uttered into his mouth, when her tongue was not invading it. “Your cock is so much better, no Frey cock could ever compare to yours!”

Jon’s erection struggled with mention of the Freys, but the plump hips and wet cunt writhing around it was more than enough for it to cope.

“I’ll take no moon tea this time, Jon. I’ll give my king a child of my body, something no southerner or landed knight deserves,” she said to him as her eyes squinted shut and her cunt clamped tight around him.

As she came, Jon could not help but to grab her hips to hold her steady, pumping his hips up against her until his release surged through him as well, which seemed to make her spasm all the more.

While basking in the daze of their post-coital bliss, Jon thought he might have heard a strangled cry from Val’s bed chambers, but he could not be sure.

“How long will you be visiting, my lady?” he asked once his breath had returned.

Wynafryd giggled on top of him. “I had thought perhaps a sennight, but I’m afraid our negotiations might take much longer now. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Very much so, Lady Manderly,” Jon said as he grabbed her arse cheeks and rolled them over so that he was now gazing down at her, breasts still heaving magnificently. His spent cock was already starting to harden again inside of her. The prophecy seemed to demand he ‘plant his seeds’ as wide as he could, and it usually took time to ensure pregnancy. Jon knew then that he would enjoy the coming sennights very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is another pairing that I think works pretty well for Jon. Assuming no war occurs and he never goes to the Watch, House Manderly is loyal to the Starks to a fault and needs a husband for Wynafryd willing to take another name upon marriage, lest their house die out. Catelyn would be very upset, but that is of course not a problem in this story.
> 
> This chapter also ended up being longer than anticipated; hope nobody got too bored in the process.


	6. Wylla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wylla's mood continues to deteriorate as Jon leaves for a diplomatic visit to Seaguard.

Despite apologies from Wynafryd, Wylla Manderly continued to act put out with her sister. Intercessions failed, and the situation deteriorated further when, after getting her moons blood ten days into their stay, Wynafryd announced that their party would remain at Winterfell a while longer. She obviously could not explain the exact reasoning to her sibling, which made things even worse.

“Longer yet! I cannot believe you, Wynafryd! I was excited for this trip when we set out, to meet our king and queen and show our loyalty! But now, after having betrayed the Starks, you must keep me here and miserable. I will have not even the time to return to our home before my wedding day, if you insist on this!” Wylla shouted at her when the news was given.

Jon comforted Wynafryd that afternoon, like many others when she and Wylla would argue. He was assured that, despite their current circumstances, the sisters usually got along quite well.

“I still cannot believe she is this upset about the Onion Lord, or even my … misguided endeavors regarding your brother,” she confided to him one early evening, her head resting on his naked chest. “She is not one to hold a grudge over such a thing, especially when she knows we are back on good terms.”

Jon remembered arguments like this between the sisters that were lost to him. Sansa would say something to antagonize Arya, or Arya would do something impolite in Sansa’s company, and the bickering would begin. After a sennight, usually neither could remember what started the original quarrel and they would return to their normal state of more passive animosity.

He did not share this, though, and instead told her, “She actually does have a point, though. It is in only a little more than one moon’s turn that she is expected at Seaguard to wed Patrek Mallister.”

“Yes, I know,” she responded in a subdued tone. “This visit was supposed to be for only a sennight, mayhaps two at the most. But after what we shared, knowing what I could have…. A child of mine own … I seem to have let my hopes get the better of my good judgement. We truly cannot stay any longer. I will send a letter to White Harbor for a caravan to meet us at Moat Cailin, but even so we must leave Winterfell soon.”

Wynafryd glanced up at him again resignedly. “It might be some time before I have an excuse to visit again, Jon. But when I do, will the offer still stand?”

 _That is a fair question_ , Jon realized. Val told him that this was, first and foremost, out of consideration for his needs when they could not be together themselves. By the time Wynafryd would be able to visit again, that would no longer be the case, and Jon would not betray Val’s trust. There was another solution, though.

“I have a better idea. I will travel to Seaguard with you, then,” Jon said, drawing a bright smile from his companion. “I have yet to meet Lord Jason myself, and the Mallisters control our primary port for defense against Ironborn raiders. Besides, it would only be polite for a king to visit for the wedding of his newest vassals to his most loyal. As long as we are discreet, we can continue to try on the road.”

Val was not entirely pleased with the idea, when he brought it up with her that night.

“I am nearly seven moons gone, Jon. I cannot argue against the political goodwill such a visit would foster, but I will be quite agitated if you are not returned before this child arrives,” Val said with a grimace, before it softened. “Pregnancy has been harder than I anticipated. Dalla made it all seem so easy, and she still died in the birthing bed.”

Jon stayed with her that night, holding her close and comforting her in whatever ways he could. Before they both succumbed to emotional exhaustion, Val made him swear to be there for her labor.

“Promise me, Jon,” Val breathed into his ear.

Chills ran down Jon’s back, but by the time he responded she was asleep in his arms.

Val was left in charge of the court at Winterfell, while Sam was appointed the official castellan in absence of the king. Dolorous Edd would continue his duties as the castle’s steward, procuring supplies and labor for its various needs as spring progressed and repairs neared completion.

Iron Emmet led the traveling party with a handful of Stark men and the Manderly contingent that safeguarded Wynafryd and Wylla on their original journey. Satin and Dryn served as the king’s personal entourage for the trip. Jon would have liked Pyp and Grenn along as well, but they had yet to return from their quest.

Nonetheless, the trek was enjoyable for Jon. The last time he marched south, it had been with only vengeance in his heart, and in the dead of winter besides. Now there was levity from the men, stolen moments of softness and warmth with Wynafryd, and excitement in his wolf dreams as Ghost explored the new lands they passed through.

Emmett even joked that Jon should abandon his horse and ride Ghost instead. This led to both the beasts being measured that night at camp. The man-at-arms unlucky enough to be given that duty reported, with no small amount of trepidation, that Ghost was in fact a hand-and-a-half _taller_ at the shoulder than the fine courser Roose Ryswell had given Jon earlier that year upon assuming his lordship.

Despite all the mirth, Wylla Manderly continued to sulk. Even the reunion with her father Wylis at Moat Cailin and the presentation of her maiden’s cloak did not lift her spirits.

One night, over half-way through the Neck, Jon saw her wander off toward the swamps abutting the King’s Road. His concern peaked, and he followed after her with Ghost accompanying him.

“Wylla,” he said once he found her sitting on an uprooted log near a pool of brackish water.

She did not respond, but merely continued to stare at the moss-covered woods surrounding them.

“Wylla, I do not know what has upset you so, but I do not want you to undertake your own wedding in so melancholy a mood,” he said as he sat beside her. “Surely you realize that I bear no ill will towards your house regarding Rickon. All of that business has been forgiven.”

She let a beat pass before saying, “I am quite sure of _that_ , Your Grace.”

“You may call me Jon, you know,” he responded, surprised little by her sass. “I don’t bite.”

Wylla eyed Ghost warily. “Of that, I am not so sure. But I shall call you Jon, if you insist.”

“I do insist,” Jon said in his best conversational voice. “Is it, perhaps, that you wished for some other husband?”

Wylla tried to keep a straight face, but her eyes widened ever so slightly, and Ghost heard her heart flutter faster in her chest. “I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about, Your—Jon.”

 _I seem to have found the crux of the problem, then_. “While I am sure Davos Seaworth was a great man, it is ill advised to await a man lost at sea for so—”

Jon was cut off by a sharp slap to his face. Ghost’s ears pivoted backwards in response, but he did not growl or even bare his teeth.

“Do not presume to understand the matters of a maiden’s heart, _King Jon Stark_ ,” Wylla spat. “I have never thought of Lord Seaworth in that way, and he is married with many sons besides. He was the bravest man I have ever seen. He did not tolerate the lies of the Frey dogs or their Lannister handlers, even though he knew he was likely to be killed for it. I truly thought he had been. However, if you must be so intrusive, know that he is not the reason for my poor disposition.”

Jon was glad they were far away from prying eyes. Had that strike occurred in public, the men-at-arms would not have stood for it. Grateful that a diplomatic incident was avoided, Jon pressed the troubled girl further.

“Not him, then. I would ask if you had a quarrel with Ser Patrek, but I know that the two of you have never met, and that he is by all accounts gallant besides. What is it, then, that has been vexing you so?”

Wylla snapped.

“It has been _you_ fucking my _sister_ since the second night of our visit, Your witless Grace!”

Now it was his own heart Jon heard accelerating through Ghost’s sensitive ears.

“Wylla, please, you must be mistaken, I—” Jon pled.

She did not let him finish, interrupting his half-hearted denial with a high-pitched haranguing. “Do not insult my intelligence as well as my hearing, King Jon. Wynafryd might have been grandfather’s favorite and protégé, but I share my family’s cunning. I came by to make mine own apology that night, and I heard your rutting and her strangled cries of pleasure. And to think, you didn’t even have the decency to hide it from your lady wife! It was in her own chambers, where the guards assured me the two of you had retired!”

“I—well, you see….” Jon tried again, still to no avail.

“Even if I hadn’t heard it that night, it would not have been terribly hard to figure out. You two went missing not long after lunch each day after that, and Wynafryd would always return in higher spirits than she’s been in since our girlhoods. No one else seemed to notice, but I did.”

Jon realized that it was pointless to try to stop her, at this point, and resolved to let her shrill rant burn itself out.

“I stood up for the Starks when no one else would! I _never_ let my loyalty fall into question, even with our home invaded by traitors! _I_ would have never thought you capable of kinslaying or any such thing, but you had to take _Wynafryd the Wanton_ as a mistress instead of me! Did you know she fucked her Frey? I overheard the fat one bragging about it to his brothers … cousins … whatever in the seven hells they were to each other, and she did not deny it when I confronted her.

“And then, to top it all off, she insisted we stay even longer at Winterfell, stealing my last days at home in New Castle, so that she would not have to leave your bed? And now you show a poverty of any shame at all and ask _me_ what the matter is, you lupine twit!” she finished with a squeaky yelp.

Jon took a moment to compose his response, and would be lying to say he did not savor the site of Wylla sitting there; face flushed and shapely bosom heaving against her gown, green hairs escaping her braid and some perspiration falling down from her flax-blonde roots to drip across her brow.

One thought drowned out all others, so Jon braced himself for another oration and asked it. “You wished for me to take you as a mistress, Wylla?” He raised his eyebrow in what he hoped was a playful gesture.

“You are absolutely _impossible_ ,” she scolded, although all the venom had left her voice.

Wylla deflated before his eyes. She fisted her hands and buried her face into them, elbows propped precariously atop her knees.

Jon wanted to comfort her, somehow, to clear up all of the misunderstandings that had led her here, but he knew that she would not respond well to any touch of his. So instead, he closed his own eyes and opened them again.

The girl before him smells salty, but in a different way than the waters around them. He stands and strides toward her. She is much smaller than him, but he is gentle. He nuzzles between her hands and sniffs the stress and fear about her.

This one is distressed, and it makes his other self worry. He comforts her like he would any of his old pack, still scattered but family nonetheless. He licks her face, cleaning it of salt that would be much more delicious were all the prey in this land not coated with it already.

She girl resists his efforts at first, but soon his furry muzzle, whiskers, and wet tongue draw happy sounds out of her, even if he can still sense that the distress has not left her. He closes his eyes, and opens them again to see the girl relaxed against Ghost’s large head, her arms wrapped about his neck, giggling at the occasional tickle.

With Wylla no longer blinded by her grief, Jon explains to her his version of the events she had described. She does not acknowledge him, but she does not interrupt either. He accedes of House Manderly’s unquestioned loyalty to House Stark, and praises the exceptional bravery Wylla showed in standing up for his family when no one else would. He tells her of the prophecy from the old gods, although he leaves out the source, and explains why Wynafryd was willing to participate. He does not mention Wynafryd’s rape until the conclusion, and allows Wylla to judge their choices as she sees fit.

“No doubt you have been aggrieved, Wylla. I apologize for all the anguish I have caused you, and I hope that you will forgive me. I thought we would make fast friends the first night of your stay, and long before that I had hoped for a loyal supporter in the Riverlands by confirming your betrothal to Patrek Mallister,” Jon said. “I will leave Ghost with you, for he seems to have taken it upon himself to comfort you now, but please do not let this matter ruin the last few days you have with your family. Your father and sister will miss you very much.”

As Jon got up to leave, he gave her one final thought, not sure if it was even worth mentioning. “When I offered to seek justice for your sister, she told me that giving the Freys pies was somehow sufficient. I honestly have no clue what she meant, but she seemed remarkably at peace, all things considered. Perhaps you should ask her yourself, if you do not trust my judgement in the matter.”

Jon rejoined the camp, and when asked by Wynafryd where he had been, deferred an answer and retired to his tent. He did not feel like company this evening.

In the hour of the wolf, Jon awoke to a rustle inside his tent. It was a new moon with fog covering the skies besides, and he could see nothing around him. His hand slipped to the dirk under his pillow, but stopped when a treble voice whispered to him.

“Jon.”

“Wylla?” he asked to the darkness.

Rather than a verbal response, his cot dipped beside him and a warm body nestled its way under the furs with him.

“I have decided to forgive you, Jon Stark. And my sister as well,” she breathed into his neck, her head coming to rest at the same spot on his chest that Wynafryd always used.

 _She is so insecure. She seeks my bed for comfort and assurance._ Jon wrapped her in a gentle embrace, tracing his fingers along the hairs at the back of her neck. Although enveloped in darkness now, Jon knew that the roots were losing their color. She would need to dye her hair again before the wedding, else rinse it all out.

“I am glad for you, Wylla. It is a terrible thing, to see a family so divided.” _You never know when the last time you will ever see someone might be._

“It was foolish of me, I see that now. I had no idea Wynafryd went through such … vile things, and I was an imbecile to question her loyalties,” she said. “Apparently the only reason the Freys never did the same to me was that my ‘betrothed’ was at Winterfell, being fostered by Ramsay Bolt—Snow.”

Jon shuddered involuntarily. He was not sure he would ever be able to recall that name without malice.

“Little Walder Frey was a brute and a rapist. He was dead before I even retook Winterfell, killed by some ghost. I am glad you did not have to suffer him,” said Jon.

“It was no ghost. I talked with Wynafryd quite a bit earlier tonight. Grandfather had him murdered, just for me,” she said, and Jon could feel a small smile from her lips on his chest. “Then in the aftermath he goaded a Frey knight to attack him, knowing Roose Bolton would send his men away. That was how he planned to get a message to Stannis or anyone else who listened.”

Jon remembered those men. After the untimely death of King Stannis, the knights of White Harbor had provided valuable information about what to expect inside the castle. “It seems I owe your grandfather even more than I knew.”

“He surely was bold. And despite being the Defender of the Faith, he knew enough about the old ways to bring justice to our enemies,” she practically purred.

“Is this about the missing Frey party? He must have been in a terrible situation, being forced to accept them as guests. There is no way he could have hurt them without incurring the wrath of the old gods and the new, nor becoming as bad as the Freys themselves,” Jon mused.

“You know nothing, Jon Stark. But should you ever find yourself slighted the guest right in an egregious way ever again, be sure to let House Manderly know, and we will set it to rights.”

“I will keep that in mind, my lady. Now, as wonderful as it is to hear our reconciliation, we must needs sleep for the ride tomorrow, and I would not wish you to be caught in a scandal so soon before your wedding,” Jon told her.

Wylla was silent for a moment, before she whispered, “I have never met Patrek Mallister. By all accounts he is a good man, brave and strong and even comely, depending on whom you ask. Still, I will be sad that my maidenhead will not be given to a man I love.”

Jon tensed under his furs, now very aware that a thin shift was all that separated him from Wylla’s nubile body.

“I honestly never thought I would still be a maiden at nine-and-ten. I thought I would already be married with a child or two. I hoped to maybe even marry your brother Robb,” she reflected. “The Lady Wylla Stark. We were of an age, nearly, and he was ever so handsome the once we met. And now I will marry a man of seven-and-twenty, who has probably pleased many a woman judging by the reputation of his adventures with Edmure Tully.”

“I know what you are insinuating here, Wylla. Regardless of my agreement with your sister, I will not take your maidenhead,” Jon said sternly. “The Mallisters needs be tied more closely with the North, and would object to a marriage outside the Faith of the Seven. You are the one person able to unite us, rather than set a divide between the Starks and our newest vassal. If I put a bastard in you, this will all be for naught.”

“No bastards, then, Jon. You needn’t even take my maidenhead, not truly,” she said, and he could feel her face lift from his neck to hover over his. “But please, let me experience the pleasure my sister says I could find in your bed. Let me feel loved by a man I admire and respect. _Let me serve you, King Stark_.”

Wylla dragged a soft thigh over his hip, and Jon’s reluctance faded away. _Seven, she is the seventh of nine_.

Wylla was taller than her sister, with slightly less voluptuousness about her hips and thighs but a no less impressive chest, accentuated by her narrower waist. Jon could feel her sizable breasts, only slightly smaller than her sister’s, press against his chest with only a shift between them as she leaned over his body to take his lower lip into her mouth.

Jon returned her kiss with his tongue, darting it passed her lips as they parted for air and into her wet mouth. She was startled momentarily, but her tongue rallied against his in a fight for dominance. Her kisses were more forceful than all the others he had ever received, except mayhaps for Ygritte, but Jon was satisfied to cede control.

Wylla began to moan into his mouth as his hands brushed up and down her sides, sliding her silk shift a little higher each time.

“We must keep quiet, my lady,” he whispered in her ear. “My tent flaps are thicker than most, but guards are posted about camp and other tents are not far off.”

The sigh of her response conveyed even _more_ excitement, if anything.

Soon enough Jon slipped the shift above her head entirely, tossing it to the floor before sitting up to soothe lines down the pulse points of her neck with his lips. Through susurrations of _‘Jon, Jon, Jon’_ , he licked and kissed his way across her collar bones and down to the peaked, pebbly nipples of her chest. Although he could not see them, he assumed they were the same bright pink as her sister’s. He paid them special attention, knowing how strongly Wynafryd reacted to such maneuvers, and swirled his tongue around each of them before pinching them between his lips with a grinding motion.

His touches were too much to bear, and Wylla grasped his and to bring it down between her legs. Jon was not surprised by her lack of smallclothes, and began rubbing the bone of his palm across her entrance.

“ _Yesss_ ,” she hissed into his mouth.

Jon took special care not to separate his individual fingers, lest one accidentally slip inside her slick folds and break her maidenhead prematurely. Wylla did not seem to mind, and even began to grind her pubic bone against his hand.

The green-haired girl did not sit idle as Jon explored her ample bosom and dripping cunt. She ran her hands down his back and pulled his shirt roughly over his head. Before long her hands yanked at his smallclothes, standing him up before shucking them down to his ankles. Jon returned to his cot by crawling on top of her so that he might better control the location of his cock.

She pulled him down on top of her and draped her arms across his broad shoulders before resuming their kiss. They laid like that for some time, her legs wrapped around his hips and their stomachs pressed together. She shuddered occasionally as the underside of his cock brushed across the pearl of pleasure at the apex of her thighs. His cock was slick with her juices, and the quivering warmth she offered tempted Jon more than he imagined possible.

“Jon, please, please can you put it inside me?” she asked after what seemed like an eternity. Her high round cheeks pressed against his face, feeling impossibly smooth against his beard.

Jon considered. He wanted to, _so_ badly, he truly did. _There has to be some other way_ , Jon thought, before remembering a stray desire he had while fucking Lyanna Mormont.

Still kissing Wylla, Jon dipped one of his hands away from her breasts and grabbed the side of her arse underneath her thigh. He guided his hand carefully from her bulbous cheek to the inside of her groin and carefully slid a finger between his cock and her cunt. She panted appreciatively at the new stimulation.

“I cannot go inside where you want me, Wylla, but this might be an alternative,” he uttered to her as he removed his now slick finger before pressing it against the tighter orifice of her arsehole.

“I – hmmm….” she responded as he massaged the pucker there with light pressure. Much of the lubrication from their foreplay had dripped into the crevice of her arse and pooled at the opening, so it was not too long before his finger was able to slip inside of her. She suspired as he pushed his finger further in and curled it upward, moving it back and forth across the smooth wall he found. _It’s not that much different from a cunt…_. _This could work._

The breaths passing through Wylla’s rounded nose were coming hard and fast. “What say you, my lady? Do you trust me?” he asked through her pliant lips.

“I would try anything with you Jon. Please, I want you to do it. I want to feel you within me,” she muttered back.

Jon withdrew his finger and gripped his cock in the now free hand. It was still coated with lubrication, both his and hers, and his foreskin was mostly retracted by their prior play. Drawing his cockhead carefully across her entrance to gather one last bit of moisture, he aligned it with her arsehole and pushed forward.

The very tip sunk in before she gave a small yelp and the rosebud squeezed down tight. Jon did not think he could even withdraw, trapped as he was inside of her arse. _Only one way to go, then…_.

Jon’s hand let go of his turgid cock and once again gripped an arse cheek, this time spreading it open to alleviate some of the pressure. His other hand wormed its way behind her neck to press gentle circles into the bones there in an effort to relax her. Wylla, wanting to help herself, grabbed her own breasts and rubbed the tips up and down Jon’s chest, which seemed to give her pleasure. After a bit of work, she relaxed enough for Jon to sink into her more deeply.

“How does that feel, Wylla?” he asked her.

“Well … you are inside me, I suppose,” she said, and he could practically hear the grin in her voice. “But, well, it felt better with your finger, when it was pressing towards the front. Right now, there is just …pressure.”

This presented a conundrum. Now that his cock was buried to the hilt in her yielding flesh, he had absolutely no desire to remove it, if at all possible. Fortunately, when encountered with a difficult problem, Jon had never been one to give up.

“Let me try something then. Move how I tell you,” he instructed her.

It took quite a while, but after much repositioning, twisting, losing their balance once and Jon tickling her cunt for a few minutes as a break, they were finally realigned in the position Jon had imagined for them. He now lay on his back, with Wylla’s back to his chest, and his cock still buried inside her arse.

Wylla’s chest heaved from the exertion of it all, drawing Jon’s attention to it in the form of a hand to cup one of her now tender breasts. He let the other hand drift lazily down her soft but flat stomach, brushing through her curls before settling his middle two fingers on either side of her sensitive nub.

Jon told her to brace her hips just a touch higher, allowing him to relax his legs and withdraw half his cock from her arsehole. It was ridiculously tight, but they were still so well lubricated that the motion did not take too much effort. Jon pushed his hips up, sliding back home.

“How does it feel now?” he queried with a playful nip to her ear.

“ _Mmmm_ ,” she whispered back to him. “That is much – better,” she said, her sentence broken up by another thrust. “It feels like … like you are rubbing … my cunt from … the inside and out,” she managed before dissolving into sighs.

He stroked his hand back and forth over her mound, her wet pearl slipping between his fingers each time. His other hand pinched and pulled on her nipple, sometimes reaching across to the other generous breast to give it attention as well. Their heads were nearly aligned, allowing them to each turn towards the other and for Wylla to continue her efforts to dominate his mouth.

They kept at it, the wetness from her cunt dripping down to where he drove in and out of her, some of it falling onto the underside of his cock before he forced it back inside and ensuring that they stayed lubricated enough to continue. She loosened the more they went, still sighing pleasantly all the while.

Eventually, her legs gave out and she let her hips fall, leaving her impaled on his rock-hard cock. Not one to give up so easily, she started rocking back, pushing the sensitive underside of his cockhead against her front wall toward what he supposed was the inside of her cunt.

“Right there, that feels so good for me—Jon, yes, right there—fuck me there!” she said, trying to speak quietly but likely louder than she should.

Jon was not doing much at this point, but he dutifully continued his ministrations to her cunt and breasts. His cock remained steadfastly hard inside of her.

“Oh, gods, YES!” Wylla said in a high-pitched squeak, barely louder than a mouse. With that as the only warning, her arsehole clenched once again, even more clamped then it had been at the beginning. The pressure lasted for only a moment, before she let out a series of satisfied, rapid, soprano hums in time with contractions of her sphincter.

Jon held his arm tight across her breasts to stabilize her as she thrashed on top of him, attempting to do the same with his hand on her mound. This caused his fingers to pinch her swollen pearl, renewing her rapturous squeals. She seemed to writhe anew as bursts of liquid shot through his hand from near the apex of her cunt, reminding him of his own release.

The need was suddenly upon him, and Jon acquiesced without protestation. Her insides felt hot around him as even hotter streams of seed erupted out of him, throbbing against the wall closest to her cunt.

“ _Jon_ , it’s so warm, oh gods—uuunnngghhh,” Wylla voiced softly, until her limbs collapsed to their sides and she rested boneless atop him. Their legs collapsed in a tangle on the now soaked furs.

When Jon next opened his eyes, a dim grey light seeped through his canvas tent. Wylla was still draped over his body, his cock wedged firmly between her arse cheeks.

 _Others take me_. “Wylla, wake up,” Jon said with as much urgency as his soft volume would allow.

She stirred and Jon pressed his mouth against hers to still her panic. When she did wake, her soft blue eyes locked onto his. They were remarkably like Wynafryd’s, although Jon knew better than to tell her that now. Wylla’s green locks were wild next to him, and the look she was giving him dripped sex.

“Thank you, Jon. That was incredible,” she said as she gave him one final kiss. “Now, how do you suppose we can get away with this?”

Jon had her get dressed, and although he took time to admire her shapely form as she dropped her shift back over her head and wrapped a cloak around her slim shoulders, he thought through his options.

“Very soon, Wylla, Ghost will cause a disturbance among the horses. I will double check that the men are drawn away, and you will rush to the woods. If anyone questions you, say that you were drawn out by the commotion but were still asleep and lost your way,” Jon explained as concisely as he could.

“But how do you know—” she got out before the horses started making all kinds of noise, which the men-at-arms soon followed with shouts. She kissed his cheek, said “Thank you, King Jon,” and slipped out before he could respond.

Wylla did not grace his tent again during their journey to Seaguard, but her disposition around camp and on the road improved dramatically. She laughed with Jon, and her sister and father too. Jon wished she could have been like this more around Val, for they surely would have been fast friends. Jon made a note to have a dagger similar to Val’s commissioned just for her and sent to Seaguard at the earliest opportunity.

Jon and Wynafryd continued to make attempts of their own as opportunities allowed all the way through the wedding night, taking great care not to be caught. Wylla looked beautiful in her blue-green and dark green cloak and gown, although the Mallister purple and silver cloak looked lovely with her flax-blonde hair as well.

The small sept was full of Seaguard’s staff and sworn knights and ship captains. Jon was surprised but pleased to see Lord Justin Massey in attendance with his wife Asha, recruiting ship builders from the area to lay the foundations of a port at their new holdfast, Seadance, on the Stoney Shore. Asha was her usual abrasive self, but the way she glowed as she stroked her middle left Jon some hope for the pair of them.

The houses Blackwood of the Twins and Blackwood of Raventree Hall were both in attendance as well. It was Jon’s first meeting with Lord Tytos Blackwood, the lord who flew the Stark banner the longest after King Robb’s betrayal. Jon proclaimed that the lord would receive a boon, whatever he wished, for his leal service. He requested a Northern husband for his daughter Bethany, a girl of eleven, which Jon promised to grant at the earliest opportunity.

The meal following the couple’s vows was simple, for the lands around Seaguard had been pillaged substantially by the Frey siege before its liberation, but lords and small folk alike feasted on venison and garlic, carrot soup, and spiced fish and clams, all topped off with thick brown ale.

Jon sat next to Lord Jason on one side and the wedded couple on the other. Since he had not lingered in the Riverlands long after he sacked the Twins, Jon accepted many official pledges of fealty that night from petty river lords and land holders who had heard of his approach. Lord Tytos Blackwood of Raventree Hall, Lord Hoster Blackwood of the Twins, Ormund Wylde the Knight of Flint’s Finger, and lastly Lords Jason and Patrek Mallister themselves.

After allowing some time for the noblemen and women to dance, Jon called for the bedding. He ended up being the one to toss Wylla onto the bed, naked as her nameday, once they reached the chambers. He did not linger, though, and gave her a knowing smile before returning downstairs with the men.

As he returned to the hall, he was pulled aside by Hoster Blackwood. The man was of an age with him, twenty or near enough as makes no matter, and appeared slightly less gangly than the last Jon had seen him, over a year-and-a-half ago.

“King Jon, there is a matter I’ve been meaning to discuss with you,” he said in his nasal voice.

“Speak to it, Hoster,” Jon replied, anxious to meet with Wynafryd again once they could discreetly slip away.

“I’ve received a raven saying that my men stopped a sizable contingent of knights riding up the King’s Road making for the Neck. They are led by Lord Hardyng, who claims that they are pursuing a kidnapper,” Hoster explained while his awkward elbows shifted uncomfortably. “My men followed their orders and prevented this armed incursion into our lands and detained the lot of them once they drew swords, but I do not know how to advise them. We have yet to have a border crisis since you’ve been king, and I’d not like to start a war with the Vale if I can help it.”

Jon agreed wholeheartedly. The Vale had been silent during the War of the Five Kings, and completely inaccessible during winter. They might be simply testing the changed borders of the surrounding lands, or they could be a scouting force for an invasion. Jon did not even know if they still swore allegiance to the Iron Throne.

“Thank you for informing me, Lord Hoster. Send word to detain them for now, but in good conditions, and I will come to judge them for myself on the trip home,” Jon told the man. He scampered off, seemingly intent on finding a raven right away.

 _Yet more trouble. Why did you allow your men to push this burden onto you, Robb?_ As Jon reentered the hall, he locked eyes with Wynafryd from across the room. Ghost was nearby, and he smelled what Jon was learning was fertility on her tonight. _Although, it certainly has its advantages._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It seems this has become the standard length for chapters of mine, just over 6,000 words. Probably too much for a lemon story, but it’s been fun to write. Most people assumed I’d only do one Manderly girl, but their characters seemed distinct enough to get a chapter each. Only two chapters left!


	7. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon deals with the crisis at the Twins before returning North and being reunited with someone he thought lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is the longest chapter in the story, with a good chunk of world-building at the beginning. For those only interested in the smut, it begins about two-thirds of the way down.

With a party composed of Stark, Manderly, and Blackwood men, the ride from Seaguard to the Twins took only three days at a moderate pace. Jon felt nervous at the prospect of dealing with the first armed incursion into his territory during his reign. He adjusted his clothes, still unused to the heat of the Riverlands in high spring. He removed his Stark doublet and became once again in thought.

The North and Riverlands both were still recovering from the effects of war and winter, even if the former Frey lands were hit lighter than most. Without the destruction, looting, rape, and crop burning that had plagued its neighbors, the lands sworn to the Twins were a vital source of food for the North during winter, and Hoster Blackwood was still able to raise a substantial number of men-at-arms to defend the now extended borders of Jon’s kingdom.

Should these Vale men prove aggressive, minor lords and knights previously sworn to the Freys would be the first line of defense for the kingdom. The Charlton lands bordered the High Road leading up to the Gates of the Moon, and while they were quick to swear fealty to Jon and were not witnessed at the red wedding, Jon was still cautious to trust the border to them completely, should another war become likely.

The lands sworn to the Twins would be vital to his kingdom, should another winter come soon. Jon could ill afford any conflict to occur there.

Upon cresting a hill, the dual castles of the eponymous Twins rose into view. It was immediately obvious that something was amiss.

“Lord Blackwood, why is it that _those_ banners are flying above your seat?” Jon asked, trying to suppress his exasperation.

“Well, Your Grace, I did not wish to continue using the banner of House Frey or House Blackwood – think of the confusion! – so I had the sewing women design a new banner for my new house, and I think it came out rather nicely –” Hoster prattled quickly.

It was rumored that the man had poor eyesight at a distance, and apparently that was true. Indeed, the newly created banner of the twins _did_ fly over the gates, immediately below the grey direwolf on white declaring these to be Stark lands. The blue twin towers on a grey field were still present, but now bordered by a scarlet field with an orle of sable ravens.

“It is not your own banners I question, my lord,” Jon choked out while pointing in the distance, though he knew it would do little to help. “I saw those during our previous journey. It is the ones flying _next_ to them that concern me.”

A multitude of new banners flew around the keep of the north castle. Some of them he recognized; the banners of Houses Waynwood, Redfort, Royce and Belmore were all flapping in the breeze, and all major houses within the Vale. Others Jon could not recall – a diamond lozengy argent and gules, a white chalice with wings on a pink field. But flying above all of them, of equal height to and abutting the Stark banners, flew the moon and falcon of House Arryn.

“I – there were no other banners when I left, Your Grace!” Hoster replied with mounting hysteria.

Jon sighed. _I must not let impatience get the best of me here. Clearly something has gone horribly wrong, and caution is best advised._

Only friendly banners flew from the closer south castle, where they entered. As he had on the trip south, Ghost refused to enter the castle and ran north along the river edge, likely to build distance upstream in order to swim across once again. The castellan and steward of the Twins, an older man from a cadet branch of House Erenford, attempted to clarify the situation in the castle courtyard.

“You see, my lords, their liege lord has been kidnapped, and it would have been improper to forbid them from searching for the boy when they are sure his captor is close by,” the man explained in a feeble voice. “We only just yesterday received your letter asking us to detain them, but the Lord Protector of the Vale himself was with them, and many other nobles besides, so we had feasted them to show hospitality by the time the raven arrived.”

Hoster Blackwood ran his hands through his hair in frustration, and Jon could not blame him. _What the old man have done the same if Tywin Lannister appeared on his doorstep?_

Lord Wylis Manderly was the first to speak up, having left his wheelhouse when the caravan stopped. “Is this the traditional response to an armed incursion into your lands? I should hope the Mallisters are different, else I have left my daughter to an early grave in the south.”

The castellan was abashed, and attempted other petty justifications before Jon ordered him to leave.

“You will appoint a new steward immediately once this business is done. Is that clear, my lord?” Jon asked Lord Blackwood, although he made sure it was intoned as a mandate rather than a question.

“Of course, Your Grace,” he mumbled out. “I am no happier to have potential invaders welcomed into my castle than you.”

“Well, the only option now is to confront these Vale men. Leave twenty men-at-arms here with the women and servants,” Jon commanded. “The rest of us shall make the crossing and begin negotiations.”

Jon allowed Hoster to lead the men across the bridge, with Wylis Manderly on his right and Jon close behind. Friendly guards wearing the sigil of the Blackwoods of the Twins were posted at the opposite gate, and they were granted access to the great hall without preamble. Jon ordered them to fall in line with his men.

The hall was packed with men in a myriad of colors. Although most wore no armor or swords, Jon noticed daggers or other small arms on many. _We would not evict them by force without some bloodshed, then._

Upon their entrance, most of the Vale men looked to a small man sitting at a table pushed into a corner. The man was short, with a sharp nose and sharper eyes. His dark hair was streaked with grey, including the pointed beard on his chin. He dressed in a light blue doublet, although no crest or ornamentation could be seen on his person. He did a double take when his eyes passed over Jon, but seemed to dismiss him just as quickly and continued his scanning.

Jon allowed Hoster to speak for their group. “It is quite a shock to see so many strangers in my own hall,” he began, surprising Jon with the amount of confidence he was able to project. _Eddard Stark was not the only person with a Lord’s face separate from his true one._ Hoster continued, “I am Hoster Blackwood, Lord of the Twins. My castellan has welcomed you all within my halls, and you can be sure that House Blackwood will not besmirch guest right here, a crime for which my lordly predecessors are now infamous. However, I will require a meeting with the masters of your expedition. I shall await their arrival in my solar. For the nonce, I will ask my retainers to open a few barrels of Dornish Red as a gift for you all to enjoy.”

Hoster’s announcement was well received by the men, and went a long way to soothing their spirits. As they awaited whatever men commanded the small army, Wylis congratulated Hoster for organizing a parting gift without drawing needless attention.

Eventually, two men entered the room. The first was a young knight, wearing a doublet fashioned with the same red and white diamonds Jon saw among the banners he did not recognize, with a sword adorned with golden lions and rubies about the hilt strapped to his hip. The second was the middle-aged man who had eyed Jon strangely in the hall.

Hoster sat in the middle of the room, with Lord Wylis on his right and Jon on his left. Lord Blackwood welcomed the men into his solar and introduced himself again, this time awaiting a response.

“I am Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale,” said the older man, “and this is Ser Harrold Hardyng, the man who organized this expedition.”

_Petyr Baelish, where have I heard that name before?_

“It was good of your men to allow us to make use of your castle, Lord Blackwood,” Ser Hardyng said. “Some weeks ago, our liege Lord Robert Arryn was taken from his chambers. We believe the culprit was my lady wife, Alayne Hardyng, the natural daughter of Lord Baelish.”

He went on to explain that Lord Robert was small and sickly despite being a boy of eleven. His mother had been murdered by a singer, and Lord Baelish, whom she had recently married, was appointed his lord protector until his majority. _Lady Arryn … that was Lysa, sister to Lady Catelyn._ Despite internal conflicts amongst the lords, most believed Lord Robert to have been in safe in the hands of Alayne Stone, who had become the boy’s primary caretaker. Her wedding to Ser Hardyng was only recent, but upon noting them both missing, Ser Hardyng swore to find his wife himself in order to bring her to justice. He said this as he fingered the hilt of his fine sword.

“Please do not misjudge me, Lord Baelish, but I am surprised that Lady Arryn agreed to wed you,” said Wylis Manderly, once the story was done. “I recognize that you were the Master of Coin for the late King Robert, but I did not think you held any great lands or titles that would befit marriage to such a highborn lady.”

Petyr Baelish remained calm, but Jon noted an almost imperceptible tightening of his facial features.

“I was fostered with Lady Lysa in her childhood, where we fell in love. She married Jon Arryn on her father’s orders, and this I did not begrudge her, for we were obviously a poor match at the time. Some time after Lord Arryn’s death, I was awarded the lordship of Harrenhal for my service to the crown, thus elevating my station enough to wed her,” the shrewd man explained. Jon did not fail to notice that he did not say _which_ king had given him this title. “Our time together was short, but the loss of our love still affects me today.”

 _The last lords of Harrenhal were the Whents…_. _No, wait, there was another one._

Jon spoke up for the first time in the meeting. “Who was your predecessor at Harrenhal, Lord Baelish? It has changed hands so many times recently, I am afraid I cannot keep track of it all.”

“Lady Whent was the last lord to hold it for any significant length of time, but I believe Janos Slynt was the man who held the title before me, if in name only. But tell me, who are you, again?” said Lord Baelish.

Looking down, Jon noticed that he had yet to replace the doublet he had taken off during the ride. Instead he was dressed in only a brown riding tunic and breeches. _Probably for the best, elsewise this man would never have given himself away._

“I am Jon Stark, the King in the North. Hoster, Wylis, seize this man!”

Wylis Manderly was the first on his feet, and he was quick despite his sagging girth. Baelish was smothered beneath the fat lord before he had a chance to flee. Ser Hardyng drew a dagger, but was quickly outnumbered when Iron Emmett and a group of guards stormed into the room.

“You cannot attack us!” Hardyng spouted indignantly to the young Lord Blackwood. “You confirmed just now that we are guests in your hall!”

“I ordered my men to give you no such welcome, but they have defied me,” Hoster explained. “Any armed incursion into our lands will not be treated lightly. Still, guest right was given, and I will do you no harm. King Jon, why have we accosted these men?”

All eyes in the room turned to Jon. Emmett would not question Jon’s judgement, but Hoster was right to ask on what authority such a breach of conduct was ordered, and Wylis was like to want the same after endangering himself so thoroughly. _The man cannot even ride a horse or wield a sword anymore, but he still throws himself in danger at nothing but the word of a Stark._

“In my time at the Wall, I met a man named Janos Slynt,” Jon explained slowly. His scarred hand clenched at the memory. “He claimed to be the rightful Lord of Harrenhal, by virtue of his service to the crown. He boasted how the bloody spear of his house represented the weapon he used to back-stab and imprison the traitorous Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark.”

Although Petyr Baelish’s mouth could not move beneath Lord Manderly’s massive, flabby arm, muffled cries could be heard protesting now. Small arms and legs thrashed, to no avail.

“He told any who would ask about his powerful friends in King’s Landing, who had assisted him in investigating the Hand’s corruption,” Jon said, making every effort to keep his voice from shaking in rage. “Particularly one Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, who confirmed that he would have the crown’s support if he commanded his gold cloaks to eliminate the Stark guards when Petyr gave the signal.”

Jon signaled to Emmett. “Relieve Lord Manderly of this foul man.” He looked back to Petyr, whose eye was barely visible underneath a roll of skin. “Would that I could take your head, Lord Baelish, for surely that is what justice demands. However, I will not have my bannerman become an oathbreaker. You will be released from the north castle gate without pursuit.”

After Wylis rolled his impressive girth off of him and the small man had caught his breath, Petyr responded with all of the condescension as Cersei Lannister would have used to speak to a simpleton. “Just as honorable as your lord father was, Jon _Snow_. We shall see how long a bastard can play king once the Iron Throne hears of this. You taint yourself with this affront to the crown as you did Cat with your very existence. ”

“I do not care to hear whatever you have to say, you cowardly fool. Emmett, gag this man until he is due to leave,” Jon ordered, and watched as Iron Emmett faithfully carried out his instructions.

“Then he is free to go?” asked Ser Hardyng.

“I will give him a horse and rations, and none of my men will pursue him, as the king says,” replied Lord Blackwood.

Jon grasped the handle of Longclaw at his hip, but knew that he could not use it. _I will not become a Frey_.

The Lord Protector of the Vale was led out to the courtyard of the north castle. He did not struggle as he was placed on a horse. When the reins were placed in his hands, Jon thought he even saw a malevolent smirk appear on the man’s pointed face. It reminded Jon very much of the expression Janos Slynt revealed, when he thought he would be allowed to live. The gates were opened, and the small man proved to be an excellent horseman as he left the Twins at a canter.

Jon watched from the battlements as Baelish road across the drawbridge over the moat and continued into the fields along the river bank.

He smiled in grim satisfaction when, just before entering the tree line, a colossal white blur leapt from the forest.

The horse disappeared from view into the woods, but the rider was caught by the neck in the jaws of a fully grown direwolf. Ghost thrashed, and the head of Petyr Baelish was torn free of his torso. Ghost flung the head aside and dragged the mauled body into the woods. _The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword … well, something like that happened here._

The aftermath was simple enough to deal with. Ser Hardyng and his men swore to recognize the sovereignty of the Kingdom of the North over the lands surrounding the Green Fork of the Trident, the Cape of Eagles, and Blackwood Vale. They would be dismissed from the Twins to search whatever other lands they pleased. Jon swore in return to search for their liege lord and Alayne Hardyng, and promised to return them to the Vale expeditiously should they be found.

The Stark and Manderly parties stayed one more night in the Twins before departing northeast towards the Neck the following morning. While Jon might have preferred to stay longer to ensure no future border disputes arose, he had promised Val that he would be back at Winterfell in time for the birth of their child, and he had every intention of keeping his word.

“Be careful on the road, Your Grace,” Hoster Blackwood said to him during his farewell. “There has been a large wolf pack spotted moving north through my lands. Their leader is apparently some grotesque beast, nearly as tall as a man.”

 _Ghost dreams of wet but fertile lands, surrounded by small cousins…_.

Ghost joined them on the road, carrying a rather ostentatious dagger in his mouth that Jon vaguely recalled seeing worn on Petyr Baelish’s hip. He gave it to Wylis Manderly as a boon for his actions in Lord Blackwood’s solar.

Wynafryd had yet to miss her moon blood, but Ghost could now smell the changes he associated with pregnancy on her not long before they were to split at Moat Cailin. Jon took her once more that night before their impending separation, for affection as much as physical need.

When they arrived at the ancient, crumbling fortress, they were surprised to find the Children’s Tower occupied. Guards with small figures and bronze scaled armor welcomed Jon into the structure, where he met with a man he had not seen in over a year.

“What brings you out of the swamps, Lord Lucen? Is this some rebellion for deposing you of your seat?” Jon teased him. Lucen Reed was short, like all crannogmen, and looked remarkably like his brother Howland, but for a flatter nose and bushy side-whiskers rather than a beard.

“Nothing near so grave, King Jon,” he replied. “My niece is returned to me, so I thought to return a relative to you in as thanks.”

“What do y—” Jon began to ask, before he was interrupted by a feminine cry from another room within the tower.

“Jon!”

Jon turned to the commotion and was nearly knocked over as a woman who looked near his own age ran into him and smothered him in a tight embrace. The poor woman began to sob in his arms, and Jon truly had no idea what was happening.

“I knew it, I knew I would find you and you would protect me, and, and—” the stranger gushed at him between sniffles.

Jon pulled her away by her shoulders and looked at her. The woman’s dress was once fine but now tattered, as though she had traveled a great distance without changing clothes. Her auburn hair was streaked with what appeared to be mud, or perhaps brown dye. She had high cheek bones on a longer face, but still had a soft chin, and vivid blue eyes.

Eyes that now looked at him with a pained expression.

“Please, Jon, you have to know that it is me— _please!_ I never meant those things when we were little … I swear I did not know what cruel things I was saying, and I know I’m not the sister you wanted, but, I—I….” she pushed out, the words clearly out of her control before her spirit shriveled in front of him.

_“I thought to return a relative to you as thanks.”_

_“I never meant those things when we were little…”_

_“I’m not the sister you wanted,”_

“Sansa!” Jon shouted as the realization materialized like a flower blooming in spring. He grabbed her back into a hug and he could not recall how long they spent leaning against each other and sobbing.

When their tears were spent, the two finally separated. The men had cleared out of the Children’s Tower, allowing them to reconnect in peace. Dusk had settled over the surrounding ruins, but that did not diminish for either of them the joy being reunited.

“Oh, Jon … I never thought I would see you again,” Sansa said, still sniffling and trying to wipe moisture away from her bloodshot eyes. “For the longest time, I thought I was the only Stark left, and even then I was a Stark no longer….”

“It was the same for me, Sansa,” Jon said, holding her hand tight lest she slip away again. “Every time news came to the Wall, it seemed another member of my family died or went missing.”

“I thought for the longest time that you were dead as well. One day you were the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and the next you were betrayed,” said Sansa. “And then, I heard of an army of savages ravaging the Twins, and the North being overthrown for a new Stark king. I was not sure who to believe.”

“Is that what led you here, Sansa?” Jon asked. “How is it that you are here, in Moat Cailin?”

“I—it is just that, I heard that the new Stark king was always accompanied by a great white wolf, and I knew it was you. That there was somewhere I could go to be safe. Brother, please, I need your protection,” she finished, clearly distressed.

“I am not your brother, Sansa,” Jon told her as a wave of melancholy crashed against his heart.

“Jon—Jon! You must not say that! I—you are the only one I have left, and now that I have been a bastard I realize how cruel it was of me to ignore you and call you half-brother, how awful I was to you, but I never would have said it if I had known—if I had even _thought_ of how terrible you must feel!” she pleaded. “Jon, I am desperate, and I you are the only one I have left!”

“Sansa, be calm,” stilled Jon as he pulled her once again into an embrace. “I will always protect you, Sansa, no matter what happens.”

He smiled at her and stroked her hair as he gave her time to compose herself again. “It is true, though, that I am not your brother, or even half-brother. I am your cousin.”

Sansa looked at him as though he had just declared Edmure Tully the King of the Grumpkins. “How could you be my cousin, Jon, when we shared the same father?”

“We did _not_ share the same father. That was Eddard Stark’s closest secret, his only lie,” Jon explained to his bewildered cousin. “He made me a bastard to protect me, and to keep me safe, even at the cost of a happy marriage and endangering his children.”

“Jon, I am sorry, but I do not understand. I have been made a bastard myself, so I know how that can happen, but why would father ever do that to you?” Sansa asked. “It was miserable,” she finished despondently.

“Because the name ‘Snow’ was less dangerous than the name ‘Targaryen’,” whispered Jon.

Sansa had a blank expression at first, much like Jon surely had when Meera first told him the tale. Jon could see when the implications of what he said truly sunk in, the shock on her face followed by a trembling horror as she pieced together who his parents must have been, how Eddard had returned to Winterfell more of Lyanna Stark than just her bones. Her face settled until she comprehended the second, more startling portion of what Jon said.

“They were married,” she uttered softly, making sure that only Jon could hear. “She went with Rhaegar willingly, and uncle Brandon and grandfather and all of those men died due to a misunderstanding.”

Sansa appraised him critically, as though seeing him for the first time. “You were the heir to the Iron Throne.”

“It matters not to me,” Jon told her. “I took the North as the last Stark, and because it needed someone to unite it. But you are more Stark than I am, Sansa, and it will be yours if you wish.”

“You would … you would give me your kingdom, just like that?” she asked incredulously. “Even though I am a woman, and was married to Tyrion Lannister, made a bastard and married again without a true divorce? Even though I have done nothing good for you, ever in my life?”

“You survived, Sansa, and it is the best gift anyone has ever given me,” Jon said. “A piece of my family has been returned.”

Sansa squeezed him tightly around his middle. “I will not take what you have so rightly earned, Jon _Stark_. You have united the Northern lords, and I hear that you are rebuilding our home. A farmer further south said that _you_ ended that horrible winter, and stopped an invasion from beyond the Wall.”

“That … is a long story,” Jon said, looking away and feeling the blush crawl up his wet cheeks. It was not a story he wanted to tell at the moment. “There are more important things for us to discuss. Earlier, you said you needed protection, Sansa. I will not allow anyone to hurt you again. Tell me, from whom do I protect you?”

Sansa’s face hardened and fire filled her Tully blue eyes. “You protect me from Petyr Baelish, the Lord Protector of the Vale, a liar, murderer, rapist, and the most dangerous man in the seven kingdoms. He is manipulative and cunning, Jon, and incredibly dangerous. He took over the Vale without drawing a sword, and he will stop at nothing to find me. He can bribe or corrupt almost any man or woman – you cannot trust anyone Jon, his spies are everywhere.”

Jon began to chuckle, and found that he could not stop himself in his exhausted and emotional state. He laughed until his belly ached and his face was red. Sansa’s face turned red for entirely different reasons.

“This is no laughing matter, Jon!” she yelled at him. “You cannot underestimate this man! That is how he destroys you. No one suspects him of anything, but he has his hands in _everything_.”

Jon reclaimed control of himself to allay her worries. “You shall never be threatened again by his men, Sansa, or the man himself. You are safe.”  


“Jon—” she started, but he did not let her finish.

“Ghost has already made sure that Petyr Baelish will never betray _anyone_ , ever again,” Jon said with a grin.

“Ghost!” Sansa exclaimed. The animal in question peeked his head around a door to the chamber they sat in. He pranced closer at her excited squeal and seemed pleased to accept her cuddles. “You really killed Petyr? What a good direwolf you are! I hope you ripped him _bloody_. Gods, Jon, he was the runt—how did he get so big?”

Jon smiled at the compliment. “I look after him and he looks after me. We are one and the same.”

“I have not seen a direwolf since – since Queen Cersei had father kill Lady, because of my lie,” she said, ending once again with a crestfallen expression. “I was a terrible little girl then, Jon. I made so many things worse because I refused to believe what monsters the Lannisters truly were. I betrayed Arya, and Lady was killed but I did not learn. I betrayed father too eventually, and that got him killed, and likely Arya too.”

Jon did not know what to think about that confession. Betraying Eddard Stark was Jon’s justification for allowing Ghost to do what he had to Petyr Baelish, without any second thoughts. _But I have betrayed people before – Mance and Ygritte. And I have broken oaths aplenty. Some of the few members of the Night’s Watch remaining still think me a traitor._

“It matters not what we have done in the past, Sansa,” Jon consoled. “What matters is that we have each other once again, that we are a pack.”

“‘The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.’ Father said that to us when we were little. Is that what we are now, Jon? A pack?” Sansa asked, smiling at the ridiculousness of the statement.

“I suppose so,” Jon said, returning her amused expression. “But why were you running from Petyr Baelish? Are you in league with the kidnapper he was seeking in our lands?”

A haunted look glazed over Sansa’s once bright face, as though all joy and mirth had been sapped out of her.

“I am the kidnapper he seeks, of course. I stole Robert Arryn, my diminutive cousin, from his rooms and smuggled him out of the Gates of the Moon,” she said with a mechanical voice. “We were preparing to return to the Eyrie, now that winter has passed. I would have been trapped there, even more a prisoner than I already was. A woman who claimed to once serve my lady mother discovered my identity, and agreed to help me escape. Petyr had been poisoning Sweetrobin for years, though and I could not just leave him to die. I took him while he was sleeping, hoping to flee before anyone was the wiser. The woman stormed the gatehouse at the Bloody Gate so that I could escape, and I never saw her again. I went north once I was out of the mountains, hoping that the rumors of a Stark in the North once again were true. I made it to the Neck, but I could go no further. Sweetrobin … his condition got worse, he had shaking fits more often and became febrile. By the time Lucen and his men found me, Robert Arryn was dead.”

The Lord of the Eyrie was dead. The Vale men would be furious, when they found out.

“That means that you must have been going by another name, for your story to mesh with theirs. You were called Alayne Hardyng….” Jon said before appreciating what that meant. “You were married to Ser Harrold Hardyng.”

Sansa bit her lip and looked away before nodding.

“Were you … did you love him?” Jon questioned, hoping that this development would not end in heartbreak for her.

“No, not in the _least_. Harry is an absolute arse,” she replied indignantly.

Jon relaxed upon hearing that. “That is good. He said that he would bring you to justice himself, should the accusations have been true.”

“I am not surprised. He never learned of my true identity, and he resented Petyr for forcing the marriage onto him,” Sansa said. “He saw me as a bastard girl and a brood mare, nothing more, and Petyr attempted to take that from him too.”

Jon stuttered. “Sansa, do you mean….”

She appeared deadly serious. “Petyr would find reasons to send Harry away during the middle of my cycle, and make me lie with him instead. His eventual plan was to reveal my identity and use me to claim the North and the Riverlands, and by passing his son off as Harry’s, he would get the Vale as well. He would have probably had Harry murdered at some point, so that he would not have to share me anymore. But the worst part was, whenever he rutted into me, we could call me ‘Cat’, as though I were my mother.”

The clinical, detached way Sansa stated all of this shocked Jon to his core. This stupefaction manifested in what was probably a horrified stare.

“You need not worry so much, Jon. One of the reasons I ran was so that I could get rid of my pregnancy. It felt good to see that child bleed down my leg, once Lucen Reed’s men got me some moon tea. Petyr’s or Harry’s, I could not bear to keep it,” Sansa said. “My body is nothing a curse. I have lost count of the number of men who lusted after me, and being fucked by those two gave me nothing but pain. How Myranda ever enjoyed it, I will never know.”

Jon was quiet for a moment, before he said, “You never received pleasure while making love, Sansa?”

“I do not think I have ever made love, but I certainly get no pleasure from carnal activities,” she replied.

“Then that is because no one has ever been with you properly,” Jon declared. “You are a beauty Sansa, truly, and it is a crime that you have never been with a man who could show you how wonderful sex can truly be.”

Sansa blushed, bringing a rosy color into her high cheeks. She was indeed beautiful, tall with womanly hips and a bust not as large as the Manderly sisters’ but perhaps larger than Val’s, and no less shapely. Her pouty bottom lip was drawn into her mouth again, similar to an expression Arya used to make when apprehensive.

“What would you know of such relations, Jon? Were you not the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch?” she asked in a half-hearted jest.

After considering his words, Jon said, “I know more than you would think, Sansa. I have had lovers before, and each has shown me something new and beautiful that can be found when men and women come together.” Jon took a calming breath before saying, “I would show you, if you liked.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “You cannot mean—Jon, that is … really?” She was clearly flustered, glancing about nervously as though Septa Mordane might peek around a corner to send her off to the silent sisters for her impure thoughts. “You would do that for me?”

“Only if you wanted me to, _cousin_ ,” he answered. _Definitely not my sister_.

“… I thought about you, once. Before father was captured, he wanted to send Arya and I home. He told me that he did not want me to marry Joffrey, and that he would find me someone good and brave and strong instead,” she said, before offering a small grin. “I did not realize until much later, when I heard you were the Lord Commander, that you were all those things, and had been your entire life.”

Now it was Jon’s turn to color. Those words would have only been more surprising coming from Lady Catelyn herself. “What is your wish, then, Sansa?”

She did not answer immediately, but after a few moments gave a hesitant nod. “I want to know, Jon. I realize that I might have to marry again, but I want to try this with someone I trust, someone who already loves me. I want to try it with you, cousin,” she said with a sheepish smile.

The decision was made. “Ghost, guard the base of these stares. None are to follow us.”

The albino beast nodded in reply. With a predator the size of a horse guarding the only stairway in the Children’s Tower, which still had all of its walls, Jon felt confident that they would not be caught, and he could explain it away as more bonding time if they were missed.

Jon led Sansa up the stairs by her delicate hand, and she seemed happy to follow. They found the lord’s chambers of the tower, still made up with a fur bed in the corner from Ronnel Stout’s occupation of the tower at the end of the war, when it was last garrisoned.

“Will this do, my sweet lady cousin?” Jon asked, trying to keep her spirits light. Sansa’s cheeks glowed with either embarrassment or arousal, or perhaps some of both, and she signaled her agreement. She approached the small bed and reached behind her back to begin unfastening the laces to her dilapidated, high-backed gown. Jon came up behind her and moved her hands away, rubbing his thumbs in soothing circles over the base of her thumbs.

“There is no need for that right now, Sansa,” he hummed into her ear with his chest pressed firmly against her back, letting the vibrations buzz through her. Val always made it a point to tell him how much _that_ excited her.

“Oh,” was Sansa’s eloquent reply. Jon let his hands drift down to her hips. “But Jon, there is something that you must see, that might dist–” she continued before he cut her off and pulled her mouth around to his, giving her every opportunity to escape, if that were her desire.

Sansa did not protest or fight when their lips met, tentative and sweet. Jon pulled away, just far enough that he could still feel the tingle of her flesh against his beard, and whispered to her, “You will control how the kisses go. Find out what you like,” before converging with her once again.

“Jon, I’m not sure,” she said, breaking away after a few hesitant moments. “Petyr’s kisses were always so disgusting, and Harry never bothered…. Could you show me?”

Jon grunted in the affirmative and entwined their mouths again. He used his hands to stroke her back and the nape of her neck while he slid his lips across hers, occasionally wetting them with his tongue. Jon did not want to disenchant Sansa by thrusting his tongue into her mouth – she always seemed too much of a proper lady to be able to enjoy that sort of thing – but he was happy to dally at her pliable lips, content in the feeling of closeness such a kiss generated.

Sansa gradually relaxed into his kiss and began to slip her tongue between them. Jon let her take control of their joining gradually, and parted his lips when her tongue skimmed across them. The timid advances she made into his mouth were quite endearing, and Jon’s patience paid off when she finally took the plunge and thrust her small pink muscle into his mouth to lick at his teeth.

She pulled away not long after. “That is … oddly exciting, isn’t it?” she asked with a grin.

“That it is,” Jon answered. He guided them down onto the furs and rolled them so that they were facing each other on their sides, and allowed her to continue at her own pace.

They went on in this way for some time, before Sansa became restless. “Jon, it feels wonderful, truly, but … I think I am ready for _more_.”

“Then you stay here, my lady, and let me make you feel good,” he said as he slid down the small bed until he was kneeled at her feet.

She separated her legs on instinct, allowing her skirts and shift to fall over her hips and exposing her silky thighs and lacey smallclothes. Sansa looked away as Jon slid the frilly garments free, exposing her glistening mound, puffy lower lips, and auburn curls to the air.

Jon had no difficulty expressing his appreciation. “Gods, Sansa, your c–, your womanhood is beautiful,” he uttered as he slid his torso between her legs and lowered his head into her groin.

Sansa protested, “Jon, what are you doing down there, and why are your breeches still…. Oh, Jon … _Jon_.” Her protests dissolved into moans as stroked his fingers down the inside of her thighs, pinching softly along the way, and blew a tight stream of air across her moist nether-lips.

“This is how lords are supposed to kiss their ladies, Sansa,” Jon said in a low voice before he ran the flat of his tongue from base to apex along her cunt. The curious _‘Mmmm?’_ he got in reply convinced him that she approved of the idea, and so he started in earnest.

Most of her pubic hair was above her cunt itself, resting over her pubic bone. The outer lips were red and tumescent, but not overly bushy. It was as though her cunt were made for feasting. Jon sucked one swollen labium into his mouth and ran his tongue along the pink interior border from bottom to top. Sansa took a deep breath and grabbed at his head, twisting the curly brown hairs there in circles with her dainty fingers. Jon repeated the treatment to the opposite side, escalating her reactions.

Jon shifted his focus to the smaller, petal-like inner folds that now protruded slightly whenever he pulled back. He separated her outer lips with two fingers and flicked his tongue along the slick folds, one by one. As he did this, he used the middle finger of his other hand to toy with her entrance with pressure, but no penetration yet.

Sansa still took profound breaths, but seemed to be able to control her reactions. Something primal within Jon wanted to change that, wanted to break his polite, lady-like not-sister with ecstasy. He pursued this goal by slipping his tongue inside of her opening above his finger and tracing the tip up, across the smaller salty hole and against the slick fleshy hood covering the pearl of her pleasure. His nose was buried in the soft curls of her pelvis, and the musky scent he encountered there was intoxicating. With the hood retracted, Jon began his lingual assault.

“Jon!” she gasped, clenching her fingers and pulling his hair taught. Jon ignored the discomfort and continued licking, rapid flicks with the focused tip of his tongue. Jon bent the finger he had inside her upwards and delivered slow strokes along the ridged interior of her cunt.

“Eeeerghh – gods, Jon, _oh, oohhh_ ,” Sansa moaned as he increased the intensity of his fondling.

He could feel Sansa’s legs tensing around him, and the hand resting across her belly to spread her open felt her stomach contract. She was on the edge now, and Jon wanted to launch her from it.

Jon rotated the motions of his tongue against her nub between flicks over it, tracing circles around it, and sucking it between his lips and pinching. He added another finger to the one stroking her slick insides and positioned the index and small fingers of the same hand between the inner and outer lips of her cunt; now when he pumped up and down against the sensitive spot inside of her, he rubbed her inside and out. The sloshing noise accompanying this motion sent chills down Jon’s back and straight to his cock.

“Sansa, you are so wet for me,” he said, talking into the indurated pink nub as he teased it with his lips. “This is what it should be like, you dripping with excitement, your cunt begging for your lover’s cock.”

“ _YES,_ yes Jon, I’ve never felt this way before—UNGH! I feel like—like I’m about to break in two, Jon, what is happe— _Jon!_ ” she cried.

Sansa’s cunt clenched _tightly_ around Jon’s fingers and her knees crushed his arms into his chest. She screamed incoherently as her thighs and pelvis trembled beneath his mouth. _She is so beautiful when she comes_ , Jon thought as he looked up at her completely flushed face, neck and chest. _It is criminal that no man has made her feel this way before_.

Aftershocks rippled through her svelte limbs and voluptuous body. Jon was mildly alarmed when a hidden corner of his mind realized how similar she was to Lady Catelyn in her figure, but he pushed that thought aside. She was Sansa, his lady cousin, and he was here by her request.

“Jon, that was absolutely incredible. I did not know feelings like that were even possible,” Sansa said between heavy breaths. Her skin felt clammy where they touched, and Jon realized belatedly that he never removed her dress or shift.

“Sansa, you must be sweltering,” Jon denoted. “You might be more comfortable if we removed your dress, unless you would prefer not to….”

“No, I agree, it is far too warm here to be wearing this many clothes,” she acquiesced. “Help me undo my laces, please?” she asked as she sat up with a contented grin on her roseate face.

She sat up and rotated on their small bed to present her back to Jon. The height of the laces surprised him; it was high, even for a winter gown in the North. The fact that it was high spring and that she clearly obtained this gown in the Vale only muddled the situation further. Sansa’s shift was equally high, once the gown was tossed over her head, but as Jon undid the laces there he felt irregularities underneath. With a strong feeling of foreboding, Jon slid the last garment off his graceful cousin.

Sansa still sat facing away from him, her hands wrapped protectively under her bosom and her face angled away from him towards the floor. Jagged eruptions of skin appear in clustered rows of four on her upper back, healed over imperfectly. The spacing between each row is about the distance between two knuckles on his hand.

“Sansa…. What did they do to you?” Jon asks with dread.

“Joffrey’s Kingsguard were no true knights,” she said succinctly. “But we are not doing this for pity. Please Jon, make me feel that good again, but this time with your … with your cock,” Sansa pleaded. She turned around on the furs and separated her arms after some internal effort. Her breasts did not droop at all when they were no longer supported, and her skin bloomed with arousal all the way down to her small pink nipples. Sansa’s abdomen was flat and smooth until it flared out into womanly hips.

Doublet, tunic and breeches were removed faster than Jon could remember. He grabbed her by her pliant hips and scooted her down the bed towards him. Sansa laid her head back and spread her thighs again, but this time rather than look away she stared right at him. She looked to be fascinated by his stalwart member as he rubbed the smooth cockhead up and down her folds.

“Let me know if this hurts in any way, Sansa—because it shouldn’t,” Jon instructed as he parted her nether-lips and sunk into her heat.

“Nnn—no, it doesn’t hurt, but it is larger than I am used to,” she confided. “Let me relax for a moment?”

Jon passed the time with his cock half-encased within her by leaning forward, careful to avoid advancing himself, and kissing the dimples around her mouth. Sansa responded enthusiastically, tugging at his lips with her own and resuming their tender kisses from earlier.

Eventually, Sansa gripped his buttocks with the balls of her feet and rocked them gently, urging Jon into tranquil motion. The walls of her cunt were sleek yet sturdy; gripping him tightly all the way back as he completely sheathed himself inside of her. He remained still, waiting for her invitation to continue.

Foreheads pressed together, Sansa confessed in a nervous voice, “With Harry I would already be bleeding by now. He never gave me attention beforehand, and it always hurt.” Jon kissed the tip of her nose as he rocked back and forth within her, letting her know that he would not judge, that he was here for her, whatever she needed to say. “Petyr … Petyr liked to shove his tongue down my throat and call me Cat.”

“You are yourself, Sansa,” Jon told her, reminded of his one, appalling meeting with the creature Theon Greyjoy had become. “You are Sansa Stark,” he said as he livened the motions of his hips.

“Of course you are right, I am _me_ ,” she said. The velvety folds of her cunt squeezed around Jon and held, increasing his pleasure exponentially. Fortunately, the white translucent essence leaking around his cock prevented friction from complicating their intercourse. “I am Sansa Stark, and I am with a wolf again.”

Warm feet pressed insistently against Jon’s backside. “I want more, Jon. Mmnn…. Is there more?” Sansa requested.

“As much more as you would like, Sansa,” Jon said. He pulled his head away from hers and took in her fine body, splayed out below and around him. Her breasts heaved with her deep breaths, jiggling in time to his light but fast thrusts. Jon picked up her legs, wrapped on either side of his hips, and swung them above his shoulders before leaning forward once again, lifting her hips off the bed and digging further into her in the process.

“Ooh yes, that _is_ incredible! Keep going like that Jon!” Sansa begged him. Jon needed no further motivation. Jon plunged inside of the girl he once thought of as a sister, albeit a distant one, over and over. The slap of his hips against her callipygian body was incredibly arousing, but the look of rapture on her face was the most stirring part of the experience by far. He was pounding into her hard now and he could tell she would get another orgasm before he finished, he was becoming fatigued and his legs began to give out.

“Sansa, I need a break,” he said as he pulled out of her and lay on his back, attempting unsuccessfully to massage the ache out of his thighs. “My legs cannot keep that pace for so long.”

“That is … disappointing,” she said between her own heavy breaths. She looked down her sweaty body at him, staring at his large hands as they worked into his muscular legs. “But if it is your legs that are bothering you, perhaps I can be of assistance?”

She squirmed upright and ran her silky palms up his limbs until she met the sore muscles, where she began kneading away the knots. “It is too bad your cock cannot enjoy itself while you recover,” she said in a jesting manner.

Images of his first time with Wynafryd passed through Jon’s head. “It does not have to suffer, if you are willing to try something.”

After an awkward explanation and a bit of shy shuffling, Sansa sunk her dripping cunt over his cock once again. She continued her manipulation of his over-exerted thighs as she began to bob her hips against him. Her impossibly round buttocks clenched with every bounce, making them even more prominent but doing nothing to stop the fleshy ripples cascading through them.

The sight became too much for Jon. He grabbed her by the bony part of her hips and began directing her to increase her speed. She complied, giving up on massaging him with her hands in favor of massaging him with her cunt, squeezing rhythmically against his cock. Unlike the uncontrollable shudders of a climax, Jon knew that this was completely intentional.

“Gods Sansa, that feels incredible. _Rrggh_. You are incredible,” he stuttered out, showing his appreciation. Sansa’s response was far more inarticulate, which he considered to be a good thing.

“Jon – haaahhh – whatever it is, nnnng, that feeling is close again, I can – oh, _ah_!” she managed to get out. Despite her claims, Jon could tell that she was not quite there.

His hands flew across her sudoric skin. The first groped her breast, using it as leverage to pull her back against his chest. The second flew to the apex of her cunt to once again tease the swollen pearl there. Sansa was taken off guard by the maneuver, which left it to Jon to finish their copulation by using his now recovered legs to ram into her clenched and spasming opening.

Sansa’s squeals of pleasure were high and pristine, like the bell chimes of a southron sept. Rather than fluttering, the walls of her cunt contracted around his cock so hard that he thought he might be forced out of her. Burying his ironclad member as deeply as he could was the last stroke for him – his seed erupted out of him, and each pulse burned as it surged up his cock against the spongy tip of her womb.

They stilled eventually and reveled in the afterglow of their love-making. Jon wrapped both arms about Sansa’s middle and allowed her legs to slip between his knees, holding her protectively against him.

“That—that was….” Sansa started, before gathering her wits and trying again. “I can now see why so many women are glad to embrace scandal, if it means feeling like that.”

“I hope you do not see this as some sort of scandal, cousin,” Jon chided. “I will never tell a soul if you will it.”

“I’m afraid it is, though. I have tempted you away from your lady wife,” she said, and seemed to lose all cheer. “My body leads even the best men to sin, it seems.”

“You will find that Val Stark holds no grudge against you, despite what we have just done,” he corrected. “I do not expect you to believe so now, but ask her yourself, in private, and see what she says before condemning yourself. I would not have done this if it would have angered her.”

Sansa rolled over in his embrace and gave him an incredulous look.

“While I love you like a cousin, like family, Sansa, I love Val as my lady wife, and the soon-to-be mother of my child,” Jon said, smiling. “I hope you will come to love your good-sister.”

“If she has captured the heart of a good, brave, kind man like you, I can only imagine how fine a lady she must be.”

“Trust me, Sansa, you have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter underwent a lot of revisions. Sansa is a much more developed and dynamic character than the other girl's I've shown so far, and I still think I did a pretty poor job of keeping her true to the books. It's hard when she is clearly undergoing major mentality changes in both the books and the show at the moment, with neither outcome certain. I'll play it off as 'this is about two years after ADWD and she has gone through even more character development', but even I know that is pretty weak. As always, let me know what I did right and what I didn't.


	8. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pypar and Grenn return from their quest. Jon seeks to hide their discovery in the crypts, but he is found there instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter underwent fairly major revisions in the beta process, and might be worth a re-read. Thanks again to [Gohans_Onna2](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gohans_Onna2/pseuds/Gohans_Onna2) for the constructive criticism.

She is near. He can smell her intoxicating scent somewhere close, just outside the stones of man den. It is irresistible, wild and savage.

He bares his fangs at the men guarding the exit. They know him, and they know his other self, so they let him through. They think he is going out to hunt, and he is, in a way.

His prey will be much more dangerous than deer though, or even an elk. And it will be that much more satisfying when he succeeds…

Jon shook his head, an inadvertent motion from the effort of kicking Ghost out of it. Something had him restless, and the wolf dreams were becoming intrusive thoughts rather than the passive extensions of _himself_ that they had always been in the past. He was used to Ghost only reaching out to him in dire situations, usually manifesting itself as some vague sense of foreboding, but never this uncontrollable warging. He had no time for it now. The answer to a bothersome mystery was finally to be revealed, and it required his full attention.

The door slammed shut. Jon slid the ironwood bar through the iron fastenings on the door and opposite wall. Satisfied in their security, he turned around and motioned for Pyp and Grenn to follow him to the far corner of his new solar in the First Keep. Grenn laid the mysterious parcel on the table.

“This was all that was there, Jon,” he whispered, obeying Jon’s instruction to stay quiet. “Nothin’ else, least that we could find.”

Winterfell was in good condition upon his arrival, Sam and Val having managed to run the household efficiently in his absence. Sansa was the delight of the castle, having teary reunions with Hallis Mollen and Tom Too, the only members of the staff surviving from her when she last called Winterfell home. She crooned over the pregnancy-swollen bellies of Val and Alys Thenn, but ran afoul of his wife when she invited her to spend an afternoon sewing. All had been splendid until this afternoon, when outriders announced the approach of two men and a mule from the north. Jon had Edd clear his schedule for the afternoon to deal with whatever it was that Meera had him retrieve.

The bundle in question, no more than an arm’s length, was wrapped black homespun cloth wrapped in black leather and secured by black belts and fastenings. One end was slightly wider than the other. It weighed less than one would expect for its bulk. _Perhaps it contains a valuable scroll?_

“Will you show us what’s in it?” Pyp asked, having to force his head between Jon and Grenn’s shoulders to see the package in the corner. “We had it at the bottom of our mule pack on the way back, so we didn’t get to look at it … much,” the man admitted.

“I suppose you two should be rewarded somehow,” Jon replied. He gave them a conspiratorial grin. “Of course, if you divulge the contents of … whatever this is, to absolutely anyone, I will have to take your heads.”

“Not unless I take them first,” Grenn retorted.

Jon and Pyp both stared at him, but after he did not react for a few moments, they nodded to each other in the mutual understanding that these things just happened and it would be no use attempting to correct him. _As strong as a bull and twice as smart, that one._

Jon released the clasps of the belts first before unraveling the leather and cloth casing. Inside Jon found a hard leather sheath, black with red filigree. Ripping the rest of the material away, all three of the men were stunned to silence.

The ornate sheath was old, but well cared for. The quality of the longsword was immediately apparent once the hilt was in view, even before Jon exposed the blade to confirm his suspicions.

His hand wrapped around the alternating red and black stained leather grip of the blade, comfortably fitting between the scaled-wing motif of the crossguard and the red enameled dragon head decorating the pommel. The blade itself shimmered with thousands of midnight ripples, more than Longclaw or even Ice, despite being half the size of the latter.

 _A gift from a relative. Was it Maester Aemon who hid this for so long?_ _Regardless, Meera was correct in saying that this is dangerous._

“Why do you get all the fancy swords?” Pyp whined.

“Silence, friend,” Jon warned, not daring to speak above a murmur. “Do either of you recognize this blade?”

The pair of crofter’s sons shook their heads.

Jon considered not telling them of its significance – it would have been the safer option. However, these men were his friends and had already journeyed across the North and back. They deserved to know exactly what their errand had brought into Winterfell.

“This is the blade wielded by Visenya Targaryen during the Conquest. The sword wielded by Prince Daemon Targaryen as he flew on Caraxes and dueled Aemon the Kinslayer above the God’s Eye. The weapon of Aemon the Dragonknight himself, and the weapon of Lord Bloodraven throughout the Blackfyre Rebellions,” Jon told them. He had trouble remembering the names of all the Targaryen kings and details about who married whom, but great deeds, duels, dragons, and swords always captured his full attention as a boy.

“This is the Valyrian steel longsword of generations of Targaryen loyalists – this is Dark Sister,” he finished, unable to control the awe in his own voice.

Pyp resembled a rodent at night with his eyes as wide as his ears. Grenn was clearly impressed, but the effect was tempered with his question, “Dark _Sister_? It’s a woman’s sword?” Pyp gave him a clout on the ear, causing Grenn to retaliate with a punch in the shoulder. Jon separated them before they broke his newly made furniture.

“Stop this,” he said in his king’s voice, so that they knew he was serious. “Remember, this cannot be told to anyone under any circumstances. No one will know what we have. Am I clear?”

“Of course, Jon,” Grenn said, all levity gone despite his grip around Pyp’s collar.

Jon dismissed them as he contemplated his situation. There was no way he could wear or use the sword in any way. It was instantly recognizable to anyone with a highborn education, and even the smallfolk would question what he was doing with a dragon-hilted blade. Even more importantly, he was now completely used to fighting with a bastard sword. Retraining his reflexes to a longsword’s length would take moons in the practice yard, and he would have to use Dark Sister itself to get the weight right. Longclaw would likely be the weapon he wielded until the day he died.

_Although, it rightfully belongs to the Mormonts, and it would be selfish of me to keep two Valyrian steel blades for myself._

The thought of giving up his gift from Lord Commander Mormont all those years ago brought a sweet pang to Jon’s chest. The Old Bear was the first man other than his family to believe in his abilities, to trust him. Jon did all he could to honor the man’s memories. _In return for saving his life, Jeor Mormont’s sword saved the world_.

It was then that Jon knew where Dark Sister had to go.

Jon rewrapped the weapon and tied it across his back beneath a heavy cloak. He slipped out of his new chambers, instructing the guards posted there not to follow him. The halls of the First Keep had none of the scorch marks that marred the rest of the castle, and the freshly hewn and mortared stone was still rough from lack of use. Jon exited into the smaller courtyard adjacent to the north wall and crossed it. Going this way, most servants and observers would think him going to the godswood, especially at this time of day. Jon followed this path until he was in the shadow of a wall, where he ducked into the door that led down into the crypts.

Closing the door behind him, Jon removed a flint from his pocket and struck it against a knife to light the torch on the wall. As he began his descent, he had to refrain from unsheathing Longclaw from his hip. The urge was strong.

Hundreds of steps down, he came to a dead end. A new door had been installed preventing anyone from descending further. Branches from the weirwood in Winterfell’s godswood had conveniently given way under heavy winter snows not long after the Battle of the Crypts was done. Jon had them carved into this gate and installed them personally. Following Val’s advice, he had smeared his own blood across the entire surface of the far side and allowed her to cover it in runes of the First Men. After seeing what Howland and Melisandre were forced to do below, Jon had no more misapprehensions about the power of magic or the old ways, not after what he had seen. The blood red eyes of the face, which Sam had urged him to carve into it when he arrived just as the spring melts began, bored into his mind, feeling familiar and terrifying all at once.

Instead of passing through the white and red gate and breaking the seal, Jon went through the simple wooden door on his right.

He entered the portion of the crypts he was most familiar with, the parts he would visit as a child. Walking past the stone statues of kings and later lords, Jon inspected each of them to insure that the iron swords across their laps were whole and sharp, without a speck of rust.

At the end of the path, the sculptures become more familiar. Rickard Stark, flanked by his two children, was passed over. Jon could not help but continue just a little further in to look at his family.

Eddard Stark sat somber upon his carved throne, the effigy doing a poor job of capturing the kindness that would often linger in his sad eyes. The greatsword across his lap was no Ice, but it was of the kind that his uncle would have preferred.

Robb Stark was at the very end of the row, technically the newest tomb despite being built at the same time as Eddard’s. Recovering Robb’s bones from the dungeons of the Twins had been particularly traumatic for Jon—they had thrown the body in a wine cellar wrapped in rags and allowed it to rot. Discovering Grey Wind’s head on top of Robb’s neck made him vomit. The skull was never found, but the direwolf’s bones were reassembled and interred underneath the great statue of the beast that sat loyally at Robb’s side. Robb’s own longsword from his campaign lay across his lap, but the thing that differentiated this statue from the others near it was the crown carved into the stone atop his head.

_What mess have I made of your legacy, Stark? I’ve retaken our home and won back your crown, but I was never raised to rule. You lost your life for your honor, while mine was left somewhere beyond the Wall with Ygritte._

Jon felt a rolling tide of shame and guilt wash over him. Robb had taken responsibility for the indiscretions of his marriage, and had been willing to play pauper at Lord Walder’s feet if it meant winning back the respect of his kingdom. Jon had fucked a wildling girl despite his vows, and more often felt pleasure than guilt in the act.

He thought that his marriage to Val would change things, would allow him to behave honorably, but as his wife relaxed the boundaries of their marriage bed he had become less honest with her in kind. He had rationalized lying with Wylla as a kindness to a love-sick girl, but Sansa he had seduced and fucked out of pure desire. Robb would have beaten the shit out of him, had he been alive to hear of it. Val likely still would if she ever found out; she was supposed to be able to hear all of his liaisons, or at least know about them, per their agreement.

“I will make things right, brother. I promise,” he said to the stone façade.

 _“How in the Seven Hells was it_ you _of all people to end up in a situation like this, Snow?”_ would have been Robb’s response, he was sure.

After paying respects to the father and brother of his heart, Jon turned back to the only female statue in the chambers. Only Northern kings and later lords were entombed here, making Lyanna Stark an anomaly. _Although, she was for however short a time the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, if Meera’s story is to be believed. Never crowned, but wed to a king and mother to a prince_.

Unlike the others effigies, Lyanna sat with her hands crossed over her heart instead of braced against her throne. Jon pulled the parcel from his back and once again unbound Dark Sister from its fabric coffin. Depositing the sheath atop the vault itself, Jon took the blade in his hand and laid it across her knees. _She wielded a small sword better than Benjen, and unseated knights in a tourney. Surely she would wish to defend the realm as much as any man down here._

Jon was not worried about Dark Sister being found. He had forbidden all servants, guards, and castle staff from entering the crypts without his express permission, on penalty of death. He personally supervised all workers that had come down to install the new mausoleums, and looked after the swords himself. Those baring the Stark blood and name could visit without consequence, meaning that Sansa or even Val, a Stark by marriage and carrying his blood with their child, would not harm the blood wards of the First Men by their mere presence as others would.

The face he had so often written off as a bygone aunt, long with high cheek bones, stared sightlessly into the abyss.

“The man who raised me never told me about you, but he did keep his promise,” Jon told her. “Your friend the crannogman never told me either, but his daughter did.”

Lyanna Stark made no response.

“I wish I could have known you, mother. But I know that you loved me, enough to have your brother risk everything for me to have a family and a home,” he said.

“Are you not Jon Stark, the legitimized son of Eddard Stark?” asked a voice from the void.

Jon froze.

There were no sounds in the crypts other than the sibilations of his own breath and the crackle of the burning pitch in his hand.

“Who goes there?” Jon asked the darkness around him, making every effort to stay calm. “These halls are sacred to the Starks – whoever you are, _you_ _are not welcome here_.”

“Any Stark is welcome in the crypts of their ancestors,” the voice chastened. “But I again ask you, are you not the son of Eddard Stark?”

Jon hesitated. “Why does that matter?”

From behind Robb’s statue, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was a beautiful woman, dressed in a blue maiden’s gown, with dark curly hair very much like his own and a long face framing grey eyes. Jon sucked in a breath as his mother’s statue made flesh approached him.

“A man named Jon Stark, the last son of Eddard Stark, is to be given the gift,” the figure replied. “And yet here you stand, claiming that you were raised by your uncle at the behest of Lyanna Stark, your true mother. The gift must not be given inappropriately, but no others will be able to verify your claim. So I must ask you, what is your true name?”

_The gift? A man? She speaks as though she were using bastard Valyrian, despite speaking the common tongue with a Northern accent._

“I am called Jon Stark, this is true,” Jon said, thinking furiously as the back of his mind screamed danger at him, although he did not understand why. “But I was previously Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell.”

“This one knows that Jon Stark was previously Jon Snow. This one knew Jon Snow, but cannot give him the gift,” the enigmatic woman explained. “Jon Stark, however, is a man that this one does not know, and if that is your true name, this one must give you the gift all the same.”

 _The gift the gift the gift the gift_ —

“What is your name?” Jon challenged, terrified that he might know the answer.

“I am no one.”

 _A Faceless Man. But not a very good one_ , Jon realized. Faceless Men were no one, with no past or history. Their disguises were always perfect, so the legends said, because they could imitate any other person by taking their face as their own. They were also deadly because they gave no warning of any kind to their victims, as the Sorrowful Men would. _This assassin is searching for a loophole. She does not truly want to kill me_. _And she knew Jon Snow_.

The young woman before him still hesitated, as though expecting him to deny his crown and his existence, to divulge the secret that could rip the realm asunder.

“And if I am Jon Snow?” he asked her, hopefully.

“The world knows that Jon Snow has become Jon Stark. I cannot give the gift to Jon Snow, but another man will,” she replied.

“What if I am neither Jon Snow nor Jon Stark? What if I have another name, known only to a few, but truer than the others?” he suggested, hiding his desperation.

“Then a man must give his true name,” said the spectral maiden without hesitation.

“If the realm hears it, my family will surely die,” he pleaded.

“This one will not tell any what a man’s name is, only that he is not Jon Stark nor Jon Snow,” she delineated.

Jon took a breath to settle his composure, before stating, “I am Jon Targaryen, the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.”

The king looked around, remembering something he heard Maester Luwin tell him long ago. “I have a gift for you, so that you remember my name. A gift only Jon Targaryen could give,” he said, hoping the old Maester’s stories were true.

The Valyrian steel sword was removed from Lyanna Stark’s lap and sheathed into its scabbard. Jon offered it hilt first to Lyanna’s phantom. She stared at it, grey eyes widening even in the dim torchlight as she saw and understood what it was. Her face fell, as if in disappointment, but she took the sword nonetheless.

“Dark Sister,” they said together.

“This … this one knows you now, Jon Targaryen. The gift was not for you, and now this one can never give you that gift,” she said with relief palpable in her voice but a tear running down her face.

“That is good, I thi—are you … sad?” he asked, confused by her sulking.

“I – this one will give you another gift, instead,” she said as she launched herself at him. Jon held up his hands, intent on defending himself from the would-be assassin, but she slipped through his fingers like a gust of wind….

She collided with him, her hands gripping his chest to pull his mouth down to hers. The maiden’s tongue invaded his mouth, claiming every crevice of the orifice.

He wanted to run, to scream, to refuse her advances in accordance with the promise he swore before Robb’s grave not minutes before.

But that was not what he did. Jon’s blood boiled with lust, more concentrated than he had ever felt before, and it demanded action. Despite the danger and the disgust he knew he would feel for himself later, he obeyed. He circled the mystical woman’s thin waist in his large hands and corralled her against the wall, surrounded by his body on three sides.

Their reunion will be violent, and likely bloody. He bites into her scruff to pin her neck, holding her in place.

Jon snarled as he ejected the lupine presence from his mind once again. If anything, it only worked up the waif even more.

She responded with a breathy moan and bit down on his lip, hard, before shoving her tongue even further into him. Blood soaked his mouth, tasting coppery and warm. He tore away her dress and bodice before grabbing her firm, palm-sized teats in his hands and bringing her pebbled nipples into his mouth. They were small and pink, and incredibly sensitive if her response was in any way believable. The way she gripped his arse and pulled his hardness against her was certainly convincing.

He wraps his forepaws around her body, rubbing his aching cock against her. She howls in response while spreading her legs in the dirt, making room for him. Her hackles are raised in agitation and arousal and fear, but the heat of her cunt pulses against him, and he cannot stand it for a moment longer.

Ignoring the distractions at the edge of his perception as best he could, Jon rucked up what remained of her skirts. She hurriedly undid the laces of his breeches in response. His cock throbbed in her nimble hands as she smeared the liquid already leaking from the tip around its head, rolling back the foreskin in the process. She wore no smallclothes, and was soaked with arousal when he prodded at her opening with his tip.

He thrust into her, his longer legs providing plenty of power as he buried himself inside her wet heat.

The waif snarled and savaged his lip once again. In the flickering light of the torch, which had been dropped into the dirt some time ago in his haste to take her, Jon saw maiden’s blood glisten around his cock. He made to say something, but she refused to relent control of his mouth, and when he tried to pull away she ensnared his hips by wrapping her legs around him, high on his waist. As her supple and incredibly smooth thighs squeezed around him, Jon lost any remorse he might have had. He moved his hands away from her chest to snatch her arse out of the air, each formed cheek filling up a splayed hand, and slammed her again back into the wall, this time for support as much as to keep her bound to him.

Her burning cunt squeezed hard around him, and he lost control of his hips as he thrust away into her.

The pale maiden began to moan and growl in his arms. With each thrust, her nails dug deeper into his back, so much so that Jon felt pain erupt even through his doublet. Her body was small and tight, but her hips felt like heaven in his hands as her muscular stomach contracted with her cries of pleasure and her cunt clenched around his cock, as hard as the Valyrian steel he had given her. Her body rolled his foreskin back and forth over his sensitive cockhead with every push inside of her. Every pass felt like a lightning bolt of bliss shooting up his cock and making a home amongst his guts. On instinct, he pulled her arse cheeks apart, allowing his bollocks to slap against her exposed arsehole as he fucked her into the mausoleum wall.

When he pressed a finger against the rosebud there, she yelped. Jon felt a beast roar within his chest, commanding him to claim every part of this strange and perfect girl as his forever. He took his hand back and pressed the middle finger into her mouth, never letting up on the pounding he gave her petite cunt. She swirled her tongue around it obediently, though she was in no manner submissive. Once she had it nice and wet with her own spit, he brought it back to her ass and pressed it as hard as he could into the pucker between her small round buttocks.

“Jon!” she screamed, her first word since attacking him like a feral beast. She sounded desperate for release, and he could feel his body responding to her need.

He pulled her slightly higher on his hips, now bouncing her arse against his angled thighs while his slick finger worried eagerly at the inside wall opposite his cock. Her entire pelvis contracted around him, so hard he thought his finger might snap, and his cock could take no more.

She howls and keens underneath him, making their mating all the more enjoyable. He bucks his hips a few more times before he spills himself inside her, a lifetime’s worth of semen pouring into the first bitch he has ever taken.

Ghost’s satisfaction paled in comparison to his own. There was a searing pain coursing through the underside of his shaft as his orgasm continued, as though his body knew that this would never happen again, that this would be his only time with this mysterious and dangerous woman, and that it would make up for it by emptying his testicles completely. It was terrifying, though whether that was due to the ache in his balls or the thought of being without her he could not say.

The woman shook around him as their combined fluids dripped on the dank floor of the crypts. Jon rubbed the top of her head to comfort her through it, more than strong enough to hold her up with only one arm. He wanted to stay inside of her forever, to spill inside of her over and over again, but he could not fathom why this desire existed.

“Stay here,” he found himself pleading. “Make this your home—surely they will never hear of it in Braavos. Faceless Men must go missing all the time.”

The spectral beauty laughed at him. “You know nothing, Jon Targaryen,” she said as she pushed him away and smoothed her ruined skirts down to cover her legs.

A chill swept down his spine, and made to reply but was interrupted by a call echoing down from the entrance of the catacombs.

“King Jon! Your Grace, come quickly!” shouted the boyish voice of Dryn Giantsbane, now cracking with puberty.

Jon turned around and shouted a reply in acknowledgement, assuring him that he would be up with all haste. He reversed again, only to find the cryptic woman gone.

The torch still sparked, albeit pitifully, on the dirt floor of the Stark tomb at the bottom of Winterfell. There was no sign the stranger’s presence at all, save for shreds of her dress and a mixture of their blood and semen in the dirt. Dark Sister was nowhere to be found.

Jon took his time to check behind each statue and mausoleum on his way out, but no investigation showed any further signs of the woman that resembled his lady mother, but had been sent to kill him.

After dawdling longer than would likely be expected, Jon made his way out of the crypt. Dryn was waiting for him, anxiety pouring out of him as he fidgeted by the entrance.

“There you are, Your Grace! Hurry, the queen is in labor!” he shouted as he ran off. Jon followed after him, running as fast as he was able.

 _I promised to be there for her when this started, and instead I was fucking an assassin._ A darker part of Jon suppressed the thought that it was the most satisfying thing he had ever done. In his not unexpected guilt, he resolved that, now that Val’s pregnancy was coming to an abrupt end, he would never fuck any woman other than her, no matter her goading.

Jon burst into his wife’s new chambers in the First Keep, expansive but simple, to find her lying calmly in bed and reading while Maester Sam and Gilly and countless maids bustled about the room like crazed hens, flustered in their attempts to get everything prepared.

Val raised an elegant honey-blonde eyebrow at his disheveled state. “What brings my husband to my rooms in such a sorry state?”

Despite the chaos of her surroundings, Val was tranquil.

“I heard that you were in labor,” Jon said, deflating under her scrutiny.

“Yes, I am, but it is also my first child and my water broke only moments ago. It will likely be tomorrow before we welcome our child into the world. The contractions are still quite far apart, so I am not yet that uncomfortable,” she admonished. Jon sorely wished Maester Luwin had given him better instruction on these things, and wanted to hit himself for not asking Sam for tutoring on the subject when her pregnancy first began. Dryn would need lessons too—he clearly had no idea of the appropriate level of urgency.

“But I am here to comfort you nonetheless, as I promised I would be,” Jon said.

“That you are,” Val said with a small smile mostly around her eyes, the kind that only he would notice out of the whole room. “Now come sit with me. Men of the Free Folk stay with their women during childbirth, and must do whatever she says.”

Jon laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, only to be called an ignorant kneeler as he wrapped his arms around his beautiful wife. Despite her brave front, Jon could feel her quivering in his arms and realized that she was terrified.

 

After they had eaten bread and broth and venison hot from the kitchens for their supper, Jon sat behind Val with his arms protectively around her shoulders as she leaned back into him. He could feel himself nod off, but did not fight it, knowing that Val would be a while yet and that he would need his rest for later.

He luxuriates in the cool night air of the woods around him. It is more comfortable than the warm lands on the other side of the swamps. He hopes the wild sister thinks so too. She lies beside him still, dark golden eyes peering into his own. He sees a flash of recognition there, and knows that his other self can see the reflection of _his_ sister in there too.

The urge comes over him, and so he gets behind the wild sister and mounts her again, forcing his cock inside of her burning body. She no longer fights him, officially accepting him as her mate. They will bring strong pups into the world, and he hopes she will stay with him in the man den to raise them. She kills men rather than dining with them, and she never stays in one place for long, but he knows that she could be happy here too. They could make a new pack, together.

He spends himself inside of her and lies down beside her once again. They lick each other’s faces before resting until he can take her once more.

Jon woke up and whispered, “Little sister,” before he could stop himself. That was what Ghost had been showing him all along.

“What was that, Jon?” Val asked from her resting place on his belly, clearly exhausted.

He did not respond.

Much later, during the hour of the wolf, after her pains became more severe and more frequent and she had squeezed his hand so tight he thought he might never use a sword again, she delivered their son, healthy and squalling. Sam made a comment about there being less blood than expected, and let Val know how lucky she was that there were no tears from the birth.

Jon and Val could not hear him, enraptured as they were at the bundled form of their son held against her body, already rooting around Val’s chest searching for her nipple. His hair was dark and curly, just like Jon’s. As he suckled at her teat, he opened his eyes for the first time.

“What is the prince’s name, Your Graces?” asked one of the maids, a new girl from the winter town.

“He does not have one,” Val replied, looking utterly content as she fed their son. Jon felt himself falling in love all over again, only now with two people instead of one. “It is bad luck to name a child before his second year.”

Much later, while Val slept and a wet nurse looked after his son, he left the keep. He found their kennelmaster and ordered a new addition installed, ‘large enough for a wolf the size of a horse expecting a litter of pups.’ The poor man looked terrified of what such a request might mean, but knew better than to object.

Inevitably, however, Jon was drawn back to the crypts. His thoughts raced as he made the descent. And there, lying across Lyanna Stark’s lap, was a thin sword of the type that a bravo might use, bearing Mikken’s mark at the hilt.

 _Needle_. “Arya,” he said in the dark, to no one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If any of you want to kill me for this, I completely understand. This has been how the last chapter would be since the beginning, before I put the first word to the keyboard. If you liked it or you want to kill me, let me know in the comments.
> 
> Reminder: The plot will be concluded in an epilogue that will not include smut - sexual situations, sure, but no smut. Remember, the plot isn't really anything special, it was just a way to justify all of this craziness. I consider this chapter, rather than the epilogue, the official 'end' of the story.
> 
> Final Words: I've had a great time writing this, and I'm amazed at the amount of positive response I've gotten from all of you. For those of you asking me to write more stories or to include different characters - write it yourself! This story was meant to be an inspiration for more people to produce varied and high-quality smut, but that doesn't work if I just fulfill people's requests. I have some other plot-bunnies I might flesh out later, but none will be anything like this. If you could use a beta reader, I would be more than happy to help... if I could figure out how that works on this site, anyway. Thanks again for all of your comments and support!


	9. Epilogue: Daenerys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer has finally come to the North, and all of the lords and ladies gather at Winterfell to celebrate surviving another winter. The Queen of Fire clashes with the King of Ice.

Life pulsed within the walls of Winterfell. A month had passed since great white ravens arrived at all the castles in the North announcing high summer after just over a year and a half of spring, and for only the third time in Jon’s life, the great summer feast was held at Winterfell.

Jon had been a boy of nine or ten when the most recent prior event was hosted by Eddard Stark. It was a tradition in the North dating back to the ages before the conquest, when Stark kings ruled independently. One moon after summer officially began, all of the lords of the North would gather at Winterfell to celebrate surviving another winter by feasting on whatever harvest was secured by the end of spring. This was also an important time in court life, where the lords could bring their requests before the Starks in plain view of each other, and served additionally as one of two regular social gatherings where highborn families across the realm could mingle with each other without traveling burdensome distances, the other being the great winter feast.

Traveling extensively to visit his vassals, Eddard Stark had been a popular lord paramount with close ties to many of his bannermen. The great feasts had seemed nothing more than revelry to Jon – a grand meeting of friends to trade japes more than to strengthen alliances.

Organizing such an event himself proved to be an entirely different experience. Jon had not been able to travel as extensively in the spring thaw, and many of his bannermen felt alienated by the lavish attention they perceived he had given to the vassals more in need of it. Half of the noble houses had been declared rebels or traitors at some point since the last feast, and blood still ran hot when families who had been on opposite sides of conflicts sat too near each other. Other families were notable for their absence – the Lockes, Dustins, Boltons, and Flints of both Widow’s Watch and Flint’s Finger would never be feasted at Winterfell again, all completely extinct due to war and winter.

The last, and largest, difficulty was the introduction of the eclectic group of new noble houses created out of the Free Folk settled in the Gift, southron knights and lords, and the few riverlanders that had turned to the North for protection at the end of the war.

While all of the Free Folk were ostensibly sworn to Tormund Giantsbane, the novice petty lords were paltry and completely unprepared for interacting with a traditional royal court, their refusal to kneel the least of the troubles they brought. Jon felt profoundly overwhelmed when he realized Soren Shieldbreaker of Stonedoor was the most polite petty lord from a castle near the ruins of the Wall. The Dogsheads of Sable Hall and Woodswatch-by-the-Pool refused to eat with utensils, Gerrick Redbeard of Deep Lake still demanded to be called ‘Kingsblood’ despite a royal fiat from Val banning the use of that name, and the odor from the blackened, crusted feet of House Hornfoot of Hoarfrost Hill were all the more pungent when they were confined within heated walls.

Morna Whitemask of Queensgate was at least unflinchingly loyal, but her (his?) odd mannerisms and ambiguous gender were distasteful to many others, especially Ser Brus Buckler of Ramsgate and Ser Malegorn Redpool of Widow’s Watch, despite their Redbeard brides. Narbert Grandison had raged when Jon legitimized Wynafryd Manderly’s little boy Wyatt, and nearly refused to attend when it was announced that the lady and her son would be attending. At least Ormund Wylde and the Masseys were amicable.

The Riverland lords were the easiest to accommodate despite never having attended such an event – nearly all the Northern lords respected the Mallisters and Blackwoods for flying the direwolf banner even after Robb’s murder, and comradery forged in arms was harder to break than Valyrian steel.

The Great Keep and the guest house of Winterfell were both filled to bursting. If not for the renovations of the First Keep, Jon and his family might have been forced to bed down behind the armory as he had once done while Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. The last contingent to arrive, Harrion and Sansa Karstark, had been traveling slowly due to his cousin’s early pregnancy, made it to the castle only one day before the feast. Jon settled them in Sansa’s girlhood rooms before asking her to run through the seating arrangements one last time.

Even the nursery was overflowing with guests, and Jon was not sure it had ever been so full. A room that was once occupied only by his as yet unnamed son that he affectionately called ‘Pup’ now housed nearly a score of babes. The fact that almost half of them were his terrified Jon, but also fulfilled him in some primal way he never could have imagined before he met his firstborn. Sigorn Thenn the Younger lay peacefully next to Jordayne Reed, half-brothers though they would never know it. Jordayne’s older cousin Sarya Reed and Myranda Mormont, themselves cousins through their mothers, gurgled in a crib near Jeyne Massey. The infant heir to White Harbor wailed next to his cousin, younger by only one month, Gregory Mallister. Lynda Hornwood suckled at her wet-nurse while another changed and cleaned Alyria Blackwood, who also happened to have a Mormont mother, in a corner. Martin Condon screamed louder than all of them put together.

Each had travelled with their families, and Jon was suspicious that Sansa was not the only lady with a pregnancy underway. The North as a whole had suffered a great depopulation in addition to the decimation of its nobility, and Jon hoped that the smallfolk were following the example of their lords and making as many babies as they could. Each child was a step to a brighter future, and Jon would enact policies over the next few days to encourage even more of them to be made, nobles and smallfolk alike.

Jon handed Pup off to his nursemaid, a concession Val had made in solely due to the incredible workload of managing Winterfell in all of the chaos. He enjoyed bonding with his infant son, who was already saying a few words – ‘Jo’, ‘Val’, ‘Go’, and ‘up’ so far – but the one year old boy still tired easily, and now slept peacefully in the arms of a young serving girl sent from House Giant of Icemark.

Pup’s eyes, once mostly grey with violet flecks, had begun to darken with age. Over half the iris now showed deep indigo in firelight, necessitating drastic security measures to be put in place on who would be allowed to handle him. Careful arrangements were made to ensure that no lord or lady would be allowed within ten feet of the prince, and all of his maids were of the Free Folk, who knew nothing of the significance of such a coloring. Jon knew that it would be impossible to conceal such a thing forever, and making it through the Great Summer Feast was the best he could hope to accomplish for now.

Walking down the hall from the nursery, he passed a window to see some of the older children playing in the packed dirt and gravel of the inner courtyard. The Glover children shared similar ages with Torrhen Giantsbane and Edwyle Umber, and got on well with each other as they were led around by Little Sam, previously the monster, Aemon Ryder, Mance’s son with Dalla, and Little Jon, Gilly’s recently named two-and-a-half year old son who looked suspiciously like Maester Samwell.

His wife awaited him in the anteroom. She looked a Northern vision in the clothes she had worn for the feast, a white tunic over white woolen breeches, with high bleached leather boots and a white snow bear cape with the grey Stark direwolf sewn into the back and pinned with a weirwood face brooch. “I have been waiting for you, Jon. What was so important that you could not show up to your own feast on time?”

“Our son, of course,” Jon said and gave her a knowing look. “You know that I always spend time with him in the late afternoon, regardless of my other business.”

Val’s temperament softened. “Aye, you do. We should have just started the feast later. Or perhaps earlier. Some of our guests have been in there since lunch, and have been drinking the entire time.”

Jon winced to hear that and braced himself for whatever he would find inside. After Val straightened his doublet and cloak and placed his bronze and iron crown atop his head, and he placed her circlet upon hers, they entered the Great Hall together, hand in hand.

Organized pandemonium was the best way to describe the scene before them. The seating arrangements he and Sansa had spent hours poring over the night before had been completely ignored by the guests, creating situations that ranged from interesting to potentially disastrous.

Despite the fast friendship of their children, the Greatjon and Tormund glared at each other, each sporting fresh bruises on their faces and knuckles. Jon had Edd send a fresh keg of ale to that table straight away. Robett Glover and Larence Hornwood were both clearly drunk, singing a bawdy song together that was earning them glares from their respective wives. All of the Mormont women sat together, likely the first time they had been together since before the war, previously girls and now all proud mothers. Alys Thenn sat as regal as a queen among the hoard of Free Folk lords, surrounded by her Thenn guards but somehow managing to keep their debauchery to a minimum. The Blackwoods kept company with Brandon Tallhart, completely surrounding him as he was formally introduced to his fiancé Bethany for the first time – although that wedding was still years away. Roose Ryswell alone sat with his bride of only a sennight, the Greatjon’s eldest daughter Jonessa, although from the looks and pets they gave each other Jon did not think they would remain seated for long. Then Justin and Asha Massey were found japing with Patrek and Wylla Mallister, the women exchanging occasional lewd hand gestures, while Jason Mallister, Wylis Manderly, and a collection of the newly Northern petty lords from the Stormlands looked on in amusement. Harrion, Sansa, and Wynafryd sat close by, but cloistered together in what appeared to be an exclusive conversation. Meera Reed sat with Ned Wull, Young Brandon Norrey, Torghen Flint and Morgan Liddle, discussing something that somehow made them the tamest group of the whole lot.

Hundreds of other men and women packed what remaining space existed between the major houses. Jon had sat down with Sam for an hour every day for a fortnight to memorize their names and heraldry. He would be formally introduced to each of them as a part of the court proceedings in the morning, but it was good to know them now in case he had to make conversation.

The raised dais where Jon and Val normally dined with highborn guests was left empty so that no lord or family might be offended that they were not chosen for the honor – at least that part of the plan had not changed. Instead, the King in the North, Warden of the Green Fork and Lord of Winterfell sat in an unadorned chair at the first empty table they could find, which so happened to be next to the Karstarks.

Sansa Karstark looked up in surprise. “King Jon! What a delightful surprise! I thought your table was elsewhere … But now that I look around, I see I should have been paying more attention to our guests,” she flushed, embarrassed.

“No need to worry, sweet sister. We cannot change the past, only move forward into the future,” he returned. Jon’s gaze went unfocussed for a moment as reflected on all of those that he would never see again, now living only in memories. His uncle Ned and his tragic secret. His cousin Robb, a king whose deadly mistake was in the bed chamber rather than the battlefield. Bran, who went beyond the Wall never to return. Rickon, his whereabouts still a mystery. The mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, brothers and sisters and cousins of all of his bannermen and friends who were dead and gone – the list never seemed to end as names blinked in and out of his mind. Arya, his cousin by blood but the sister of his heart who he had found and thought lost forever all at once. _I am sorry, little sister. If only I had realized it sooner…_.

A gentle nudge in his ribs extracted Jon from his melancholy reminiscence. “You have words to say, husband,” Val coaxed him.

Jon nodded to her in confirmation and looked at her one last time. Her sharp face was as comely as ever, her thick honey-blonde eyebrows enhancing the pride she held as she looked upon him. She smiled at him with just her eyes, her unblemished high cheeks rising almost imperceptibly more. A surge of affection welled up within him, and with it confidence. _If I have charmed her so thoroughly, what do I have to fear from this sorry lot?_

Jon rose to his feet. The hall continued its rowdy chatter. He needed something to get their attention. Looking around, the solution became obvious. He closed his eyes.

She opens her eyes again in the middle of the crowded man-den. The quiet brother-mate sits by her side, unable to do what the quiet man needed. The quiet man is not her other self, but her other self loves him more than anything, so she does what he asks. Standing protectively over her litter, she throws her head back and howls, singing until the men are silent.

Jon opened his eyes once more, back at the table. The majority of the cacophony had dissipated in the wake of Nymeria’s crooning howl, high to low like a sweet sad song. Jon raised his arms and began the speech he had prepared.

“Lords, Ladies, Masters and Knights, clans and Free Folk, people of the North! You are all officially welcome to Winterfell for the Great Summer Feast!” he shouted to be heard even in the far corners of the room. “Since the age of Brandon the Builder, the Starks have gathered their family, vassals, and friends together to celebrate the first full moon of summer. Winter has come and gone, and we have survived it together!

“Many of you I am meeting for the first time, and others I feel like I have known my entire life. Some of you know me as a bastard, others as a crow. Somehow, I have become your King. My brother Robb Stark, the King in the North, reforged the bronze and iron crown of the Starks that I wear now not for his own glory, but because you asked it of him and placed it on his head.” Jon looked to the Greatjon then, but the still-too-skinny Umber man only grimaced and nodded in return.

“Robb’s will was unconventional at best – naming a bastard Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch a prince and later a king. Many of you questioned his choice, and rightfully so—I was not there in the south fighting Lannisters with the rest of you, and no man has been released from the Night’s Watch except from death. For those who still question the validity of the original document, I have it one display outside my solar for anyone to see without supervision or judgement,” Jon said. No one had approached him openly questioning the decree, but Jon knew that distrust was ripe where bastards and kings were concerned. He glanced hopefully at the Greatjon one last time, before saying, “Lord Umber is the last surviving signatory, and he may affirm or deny its legitimacy as he wishes.”

Silence spread thickly over the gathering as all eyes turned to the once giant man. Imprisonment at the hands of the Freys had been harsh, leaving his face still gaunt and bags of loose skin still sagging under his arms where muscles had once been, despite years of recovery. He would never be the man he once was. All the same, he was still tall and imposing and spry, and when he stood the audience was riveted. “I was the first man who demanded that Others-damned crown be put on Robb Stark’s head. And I paid the price in blood, both my own and my brothers’ and my eldest son’s. Crowning Robb Stark had me attacked at a wedding as I watched all of my friends get slaughtered around me.”

Jon Umber let the silence simmer in the air.

“But I did it all for a reason. We had been wronged, betrayed by two lieges two generations in a row. The Targaryens killed Rickard and Brandon and Lyanna, and the Baratheons killed Ned, held his daughters captive, and crippled his son. After we had supported their crowns and bled for their kingdoms, that was the thanks with which they repaid us. But through it all, when winter came, it was the Starks who filled our cisterns and storehouses when they became dangerously low, who negotiated trade and settled our grievances on our behalf.

“And so when Robb thought his wife barren and all his other siblings dead or lost, no offense to the Lady Karstark, I knew that I would accept no other man for my king should Robb perish than the last son of Eddard Stark! Jon Stark, THE KING IN THE NORTH!”

“The King in the North! THE KING IN THE NORTH!” the crowd chanted, pounding on their tables in varying states of drunkenness. Eventually the Greatjon motioned for them to settle so that he might speak again.

“And so it is without any reservation that I say now, on the honor of House Umber and on my own honor as a man: Jon Stark is the one true King in the North, and the man who says otherwise to me will find himself short a skull.”

Cheers erupted once again. Eventually Jon had Nymeria howl once more to suppress them.

Jon continued from where he left off. “We have had more than our fair share of suffering as a people. A disastrous war, a terrible winter, and our own childhood stories come to life to kill us all. The Wall may be gone, but that threat was vanquished, and we survived.

“Tomorrow we will convene on matters of state. We do not know how long this summer will last, but we do know that winter is coming, and we will be ready for it when it is here. But tonight, we celebrate how far we have come and mourn all that we have lost. Our lands and people may have changed, but our kingdom lives on. Share meat and mead with your neighbors, new and old, and we shall rebuild our kingdom together!”

Another chorus of raucous cheers and shouts rang out. Servants poured into the hall by the dozen carrying all manner of Northern dishes. Some plates were filled with venison, boar, mutton, beef, and pork garnished with all manner of herbs and roasted or seared, others with pheasant, grouse, and game hen stuffed with oats and raspberries or lingonberries, and still others dishes with haddock, salmon, and herring brought overland from Bear Island and Westwatch-by-the-Bridge using ice from the remnants of the Wall. The cheese made this spring was not yet cured, but berry preserves and butter were served with their hot black. The North had no grapes for wine, and almost all of their casks were empty, but ale brown ale frothing with yeast and sweat honey-mead were furnished freely to all of the guests. Even buttered frog legs from the Neck were put forward, and Jon had to admit that they tasted quite good.

No expense was spared, and the effort was obviously worth it. Despite all of these foods being sent to Winterfell as tithe or purchased recently from his own vassals, such a cornucopia was not possible to piece together in any one of the kingdom’s individual land holdings. The bounty of the whole kingdom was on display, and while his small army of cooks held far less experience or training than what would be expected at a southron court, the sheer variety dazzled the nobles present. _Not that such a thing would be hard to do, after so many of them nearly starved to death not two years ago._

After Jon and Val had taken _small_ samples of each dish and sent them around the room, they were engaged in conversation by Wynafryd Manderly, who had been sitting quietly next to Sansa since they had arrived. “Your Graces, we were discussing something earlier which I feel should be brought to your attention—”

“Wynafryd, you need not trouble their Graces with our silly gossip!” Sansa interrupted, eyes wide as she gave the busty Manderly woman a pleading look.

“On the contrary, Lady Karstark, I swore to speak to the king of this matter immediately should there be any news!” Wynafryd insisted, causing Sansa to pale at her blunder.

“What my wife means to say, Your Grace,” Harrion Karstark cut in, “is that there have been disturbing rumors from our coastal holdfasts. Raids on the shore from the Skagosi.”

 _The first disruption of the peace, not counting the incident with the Eyrie. It was bound to happen at some point or another_.

“Is this outside of your power to deal with, Lord Karstark?” Jon asked, speaking formally should anyone else in the Great Hall overhear them – he must always speak like a king while so many guests are present, lest he seem overly familiar.

“No, thankfully. I only bring it up because of the information we acquired after interrogating a few of the captured men and women – there is a king of Skagos, if they are to be believed,” Harrion finished with a grim twist to his mouth.

“That is what I wanted to discuss with you, Your Grace,” continued Wynafryd. “I was able to find a sailor from Lord Sealskinner’s men who spoke the Old Tongue, and sent him to gather what intelligence he could.” She paused, centering herself before saying, “The king is but a boy, barely nine years to his name. But he is spoken of with awe by the people there, who claim his hair is made of fire, his eyes made of ice, and that he is guarded by a monstrous black beast at all times. They say he is from a line of ancient kings, and that he wishes to take back what is rightfully his.”

Jon locked eyes with Sansa. It was obvious what she had been trying to hide – likely for the same reasons Wynafryd had hid the information originally, when there had been no more than hints and suspicions. He made a mental note to have an extensive conversation with her later, in private, where they could—

_SCREEEEEEECH!!_

Commotion and revelry slammed to a halt. Servants and lords alike jumped at the ungodly sound that pierced the castle walls like Valyrian steel through an Other.

More screeches followed, louder now, followed by screams from men on the battlements.

Jon stood and looked to the door as Hallis Mollen threw them apart, panting as though he had just run for his very life.

The normally reserved and disciplined captain of the guard looked out of his mind with terror.

“Dragons, Your Grace! Living, fire-breathing dragons!”

Murmurs of disbelief rose first from the crowd, carrying notes of incredulity and doubt. Those all vanished when a pillar of black and red fire flared through the doors and melted the flesh off Hallis Mollen’s bones.

Bedlam ensued. Women cried out in horror, men scrambled to the side doors to retrieve their weapons, or more likely to find somewhere to hide. Tables were overturned in the madness, the contents of the feast scattered across the stone floors.

“I must see to the children,” Val said as she disappeared into the throng.

Servants and guards tried their best to lead the guests into the cellars and empty passageways between the buildings, normally meant to protect them from high snows in winter and now half-filled with the bounty of spring. Still, they would provide better protection than anything else if these dragons did burn down the keeps.

Jon sat still in the disarray until he felt a cold nose nudge his hand. Ghost looked up at him, red eyes filled with purpose. “You are right, my friend,” Jon responded, and let Ghost lead the way out of the Great Hall and into the bailey.

At the foot of the steps was a great winged beast, covered in black scales with blood-red claws and horns and teeth. Its eyes were red like Ghosts, but burned with desire for vengeance. It dominated the bailey, towering over men and parapets alike.

Chains wrapped twice around the dragon’s belly, just above the wings and just below them, securing an iron saddle to its back. Upon that saddle, enthroned for all of Winterfell to see, was a woman. She might have been short, had she not towered above them all from atop her mount. The invader had silver-blonde hair that cascaded over her shoulders in the summer dusk, and from this distance Jon could just barely make out her bright violet eyes. Her chin and nose were dainty, her face skinny and beautiful.

The strange woman’s manner of dress was the more odd part of her appearance, he decided. She clearly wore breaches covered in thick riding leathers on her legs, but her torso was largely bare, except for a finely painted horsehair vest under which her breasts swayed freely. Her shoulders were draped with what appeared to be the pelt of an enormous white lion. Finally, crowning her head was a crown made of smoky, red and black steel and encrusted with rubies.

Their eyes locked and the dragon bellowed once again, discharging a lance of black flame into the sky. Jon could smell his beard singe from the heat, some twenty paces away.

Two other dragons, a dark green one and a cream one, circled in the skies overhead, having already set fire to the guard towers brave enough to fire arrows upon their master.

Jon held a fisted hand high into the air and the arrows stopped.

And rather than say anything to this bewildering and uninvited guest, he waited.

Burning purple eyes bore into smooth grey ones, demanding his submission, but Jon offered only an impassive stare, ice-cold after years of seeing the impossible and accepting it for lack of any better options. This was far from the most terrifying situation he had ever been in, and he would not be cowed by this girl who could not possibly be any older than he was. _And as Jeor Mormont once said, controlling the conversation means doing the opposite of what your opponent wants._

Eyebrows so pale they were almost white drew together as the girl’s otherwise perfectly smooth forehead wrinkled in frustration.

Jon continued to stare placidly, and offered her a small smile.

Finally, she submitted first. “I am Daenerys Targaryen, the Stormborn, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of Meereen and _Khaleesi_ of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Slayer of Lies and Mother of Dragons!”

Her decree echoed across the empty bailey. Not a man, woman, or child made a sound, although the other dragons continued to screech off in the distance.

“A fine name, Your Grace,” Jon replied, well aware of the crown still atop his head and what she must think of it. “I am Jon Stark, the King in the North.”

He was rewarded with a bewildered expression across her pretty face, but that quickly dissolved into fury.

“So the rumors were true. Tell me Stark, do you have any last words before you are given to Drogon’s fires as justice for your family’s crimes?”

Blood pounded in Jon’s ears. His burnt hand clenched into a rigid fist and did not release. There was only one means he had to prevent immediate death, and he took it.

“Kill me and be cursed as a kinslayer, Daenerys Targaryen, my father’s sister!” he shouted over the inhalation of the dragon as it prepared to boil his flesh and melt his bones.

The queen’s eyes widened in surprise and jerked the monstrous head up and away from him, torching the nearby sept instead, blowing out its walls with the force of the blast.

Daenerys looked shocked and then appalled by her own actions, but Jon could see the realization blooming in her mind. “The wolf bitch could have whelped. You claim to be my brother Rhaegar’s get, then. Have you any proof?”

Being honest with himself, Jon was simply grateful he had correctly guessed the relationship this girl would have with Rhaegar Targaryen. He had only known that two Targaryens had escaped into exile, and calling her Rhaegar’s sister rather than a daughter or a cousin had apparently saved his life.

The first crisis averted, Jon focused on the new one. Dark Sister was the best proof he had for his ancestry, but then again it had been missing for years and could be easily falsified … although not quickly. Arya had it, regardless, and where she took it he did not know. That left only one option available to him, as much as he would despise himself for it.

“I have suspected for some time such a thing, but my only proof is in my son. He has dark indigo in his eyes that could only have come from me,” Jon admitted, ashamed to endanger his family so.

Daenerys considered him carefully, dissecting him with her sharp eyes. “I will meet you atop the tallest tower, out of view of your archers. You will bring the child, and his mother too. My children will circle the keep, and they will not hesitate to make Harrenhal appear inviolate in comparison to this Winterfell should anything happen to me during our conversation.”

Before he could respond, the dragon beat its wings and ascended to the top of the Great Keep while beats of scalding air pulsed across Jon’s exposed face.

Inside the foyer of the Great Hall, Jon’s high lords had gathered. Lords and ladies, masters and clan chieftains and major landed knights, nearly all of the primary vassals sworn directly to Winterfell were gathered before him. They had watched the spectacle, it seemed, and were awaiting his instructions. Jon searched out the one person whose advice he needed the most at the moment, and singled her out.

“Lady Reed. What _exactly_ was the message you heard from the old gods on the day we met?” he demanded, voice quick with urgency.

“They told me: _‘The king of ice shall clash with the queen of fire, and their realms shall be spared blood only by the hidden seeds that he has planted.’_ Word for word, Your Grace,” Meera said without hesitation.

“Well, we seem to have found the ‘queen of fire’. I will negotiate with her amongst the crenels of the Great Keep. Do not disturb us, or she will burn us alive,” Jon said, thinking quickly on what he needed to do. “Someone find Iron Emmett and tell him he is the new captain of the guard, for now. Larence, go into the hall and find me some bread, salt, and wine if you can. Do it.” He left quickly and without protest, stumbling only slightly through the charred remains of the doors. “Lord Manderly, should anything happen, you will execute my last will,” _under the guiding hands of your daughter_ , he did not need to say. “Lord Umber, this woman will not have come alone. Should the worst happen, muster whatever armies you can and garrison Moat Cailin. Lord Glover, you shall take Val and my child and keep them safe in Deepwood Motte until he comes of age.” Sybelle Glover was wonderful around her children, surely she would not mind overmuch. And that was assuming his wife and son even outlived him. “I name my lady sister Sansa as his regent, as well as his heir presumptive. It is imperative that she lives in the First Keep, even if you have to rebuild it from scratch. Maester Samwell will know how to do it correctly. There must _always_ be a Stark in Winterfell. I cannot stress that enough.”

The absolute necessities secured, Jon branched out into contingencies. “Lord Tytos, gather however many archers you think you can while escaping notice and sneak into the godswood. Brandon Snow once thought weirwood arrows might kill dragons – that could be our best chance.” The elder Blackwood nodded and left. “Lady Thenn, if the dragons attack again, get Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun to smash one of the smaller ones.” She replied in the Old Tongue, which Jon understood just enough of to know it for a confirmation of his order.

Jon considered his next words carefully, and decided that the situation was too important to disregard his next idea for the sake of propriety alone. “Lady Mormont, gather all of the skin-changers you know of. That means you too, Tormund. If things go badly, I want each of them trying to break one of those dragons – but do not do it unless I am already dead, we don’t know how the dragons will react.”

Many of those still gathered stared at him as though he had ordered her to stand on her head, but others – more than he expected – simply nodded.

“Meera, the prophecy one last time, if you would,” Jon asked. She repeated it as Lord Hornwood returned with a mostly whole loaf of bread, a container of salt, and a skin of wine. With everything set up as well as it could be, he dashed back across the bailey and into the Great Keep, up the stairs with Ghost a silent white wisp behind him.

He stopped at the nursery, finding Val standing in the doorway with their son in one hand and her ironwood spear in the other.

“What does she want, Jon?” Val growled at him, every bit as fierce as a mother wolf with her young threatened.

“We need to show her. She must see the Pup,” he told her softly, shame dripping out of his mouth with the words. “She will not like the spear, either.”

Her face hardened to him, but she nodded and dropped her weapon to the floor. They made their way up the steps in the center of the keep, Val’s decision to set a fashion of breeches for women rather than dresses proving serendipitous to their speed. The Pup stirred some at the motion, but curled peacefully against his mother when they crested the stairs.

Jon and Val passed through the roof house and onto the high balcony overlooking the castle, carrying their beloved son and followed by Ghost, soundless as ever. Daenerys Targaryen stood with her back to them, watching the three dragons circle high about the suddenly less-impressive guard towers along Winterfell’s walls. Her quicksilver hair whirled in the chilly summer wind, swirling with her white lion cloak. A gust blew hard enough to expose her back, muscular from riding and naked above the waist.

The lack of any reaction to their presence, despite it being impossible for her to have _not_ heard the door close behind him, allowed Jon to infer that she too knew how to manipulate conversations. She was going to make him call her attention.

Instead, Jon walked up to her side, keeping his pace easy and his hands visible, should one of the dragons become concerned. After a few paces, he rested his arms on the crenellation next to her. She was much shorter than he had expected, the top of her head barely meeting his shoulder. When she still did not respond, Jon removed the bread, salt and wine from the pouch on his belt and sat them directly in front of her.

She looked down at his offering, clearly perplexed.

“Bread and salt, Your Grace,” he explained. “And wine, if you prefer. It is a Westerosi acknowledgement of guest right that has been a tradition for thousands of years, by the reckoning of the maesters. It is a promise from me not to harm you or yours during your stay, as long as you do the same for me and mine.”

The Valyrian woman had the grace to blush. “I have been to many castles in Westeros. All of them bowed before me, while you claim the right to kill me if I do not eat or drink your ‘gift’, which might very well be poisoned,” she said. She was certainly fluent in the Common Tongue, but this close to her Jon picked up the looping vowels typical of a bastard Valyrian accent in addition to some guttural noises he had never heard before.

“I will share it with you then, to convey my good intent,” Jon said with a shrug. He took the loaf and split it, steam rising out of the warm center into the chilly dusk. Salt sprinkled over both halves, Jon placed one piece in front of her again before biting into his and taking a swig of the wine.

After a few moments of consideration, the mother of dragons acquiesced, taking a rather large bite out of her bread.

“Had I known you were coming, I would have invited you to our feast,” Jon said conversationally. He made every attempt to sound confident and relaxed, and could only pray to the old gods that he succeeded. “It’s ruined now, of course, what with the tables overturned in the commotion, the doors burnt to cinders, and my captain of the guard dead in the entrance to the Great Hall.”

“Enough with this nonsense, Stark. Show me your child, and pray to whatever gods you keep that I see my brother in him,” she said imperiously. The dragon queen spun on her feet, facing Val for the first time, the Pup nuzzled contently against her bosom. Daenerys glared at the taller woman, but Val kept her face defiant.

Ghost was nowhere to be seen, which was not entirely unusual.

His aunt approached his wife and extended her arms, silently demanding Val to relinquish their first born. A single tear slipped down her face as she placed the Pup in the queen’s arms.

The Pup opened his eyes at the none-too-gentle way Daenerys handled him. Jon knew then that other than the dragons, she had never held any children of her own.

Indigo like a calm mountain lake surrounded by whorls of grey stared into the dilated pupils and bright violet rings that were Daenerys Targaryen’s eyes.

“You then, look at me,” she indicated to Val. The volatile queen grabbed at Val’s chin and pulled her close to inspect her eyes as well. Jon realized that she might accuse him of bringing a different woman than the child’s mother, if she truly wished to prove him false, but the flecking pattern of Val’s own eyes was distinctly hers in the entire castle, which meant likely in the entire North as well. She had passed on this duality to their son, which the Targaryen queen recognized as well, quashing any plans she might have had to name him a liar.

The dragon queen glowered at Jon with so much disdain that he thought he might catch on fire just from the brilliant fire behind her eyes. She thrust his son back at Val. “He has indigo in his eyes, like many have said my brother Rhaegar possessed. I do not like it, but you are likely my nephew,” she grudgingly spat. “I will not become a kinslayer.”

Sighs of relief escaped Jon and Val both at once, like a mountain of air escaping from his chest. The king began shaking as tension slipped out of his fingers and toes to be replaced by a cloudy exhaustion.

“However, you still come before me wearing a false crown,” Daenerys threatened. “I will not kill you, son of my brother, but I will travel to every holdfast if I must and burn all those who swear fealty to your crown over mine.”

Anxiety rushed again into his veins, and the sounds of leaves rustling in the wind could be heard from the godswood in the silence that followed, even all the way up here.

 _… the hidden seeds that he has planted…_.

“That is also ill advised, Your Grace, if you truly wish to avoid kinslaying,” Jon replied, placing the safety of his entire kingdom in the hands of the old gods.

Daenerys exploded with ire. “What could you possibly mean!?” she screamed, her normally soprano voice squeaking with rage.

Focusing his lord’s face, Jon responded to her with a calm and soothing voice. “Half of the children of the Northern lords are mine as well, with as much Targaryen blood as my trueborn son. And not one of them will submit willingly to you, Your Grace,” he told her as her eyes danced with fury.

He felt his own self-control discharging as well. “None of my lords will submit to a girl who disrupted their feast, burned their men, and threatened their king. You know nothing of the North, _Your Grace_ , nothing of its people! You do not know about old men going hunting on dark winter nights so that their families have one less mouth to feed, or being forced to consume your dead neighbor so that you do not starve. You do not know what it is to be so cold you wish you could just sleep, even though you know you might never wake up. You do not know anything of the Free Folk, or the clansmen, or the crannogmen, or even the ways of the First Men! You do not know how to ensure your lords save enough of their harvests come summer, when it is you who must remind them that _Winter is Coming_! You know nothing, Daenerys Targaryen!”

The self-proclaimed Queen of the Seven Kingdoms gaped at him, stunned.

“My lords only just earlier renewed their pledge to me, and confirmed their desire to bow to no king but the King in the North,” Jon said, allowing his scarred fist to unclench. “We are tired of being sod and fodder for the conflicts of the south. The south butchered our loved ones and made monsters of our lords. When the Others returned with their armies of undead, it was the North who threw them back.

Jon paused for a moment to catch his breath. The Valyrian queen radiated impotent fury.

“I will not tell you which keeps house my children, but suffice to say burning even one noble family risks you committing the foulest of sins.”

The diminutive woman spun on her heels, showing them her back. The motion caused the wind to catch her vest, exposing a small but shapely breast midway through the rotation. She did not seem to care.

“Then your barbaric vassals can keep their bloody castles!” she shouted into the cold, Northern sky. “At this very moment, an army of Unsullied and thousands of knights and men-at-arms from the Vale march up the King’s Road. Dragons kill indiscriminately, but men can be instructed to avoid children well enough. I will liberate the smallfolk from you Northern savages and scatter any of your bannermen who resist across the sea.”

Daenerys made to signal something to her dragons, but Jon interrupted her.

“Is that what you do, Your Grace?” Jon asked, pressing his luck. “Show up unannounced to people’s castles and threaten to burn them alive and slaughter their people if they do not immediately submit?”

She spun to look at him again, becoming only more frustrated when she had to angle her neck severely due to his proximity and height. “Yes! That is what I do, because their lands and castles are mine! I am the rightful queen of the Sunset Kingdoms of Westeros, the last true Targaryen alive, and they all owe me fealty! If they do not kneel, they are usurpers or rebels and they _burn_!”

 _She is mad_ , Jon realized, _or near enough as makes no matter_. Reasoning with her would be nearly impossible, but Jon had to try.

“And do your people cheer you for it?” he asked her.

“All of King’s Landing cheered when I burned Cersei Baratheon and the Kingslayer together in the Dragon Pit,” she told him, an execrable smirk displaying her impeccable white teeth. “There were no Lannisters of the Rock left after that, and the westermen were happy to welcome me back as their rightful queen. They praised me for burning Edmure Tully and his spawn and razing Riverrun to a smoldering pit! Stormlanders and reachmen alike chanted my name when I burned the pretender Aegon Blackfyre and his Golden Company in the fields of Grassy Vale!”

Gleaming violet eyes widened in excitement as Daenerys Targaryen, Slayer of Lies, continued. “The Lannisters, Baratheons, and Tullys were all dead, and so were the Starks from what I had been told. I went to the Vale to burn the Arryn whelp, only to find him dead as well. Lord Hardyng bent the knee immediately and fashioned me a crown of He did me great service by telling me that the Starks were not as dead as they should have been, and I flew here to verify his claims for myself.”

Half of these events were unheard of in the North. Traders from the Free Cities visiting White Harbor had been mentioning upheaval in the southron lands, but things must have happened quickly for so many important events to be completely overlooked. Sansa had asked him once what happened to Edmure Tully, but no raven sent to Riverrun had ever returned, and his Rivermen lords claimed that the roads were still too dangerous to scout the area without a tremendous force.

“He told me how you stole his wife and murdered the Lord of Harrenhal in cold blood, and betrayed even Robert Arryn, your ally and kinsman!” she raged at him. “I still cannot conceive of how you convinced the Faceless Men to spare you, and only Balerion knows how you have convinced me not to kill you where you stand.”

The desire to correct her rose within his chest, but he quashed it swiftly. _She is wrong on so many accounts. She has no skill for telling truth from convenient lies._

“I learned long ago that helping the least of your people only leads to betrayal. Acceding to the wishes of your vassals makes you weak, and only leads to rebellion. _Fire and Blood_ are what make people submit to a ruler, and they will make me great!” she rambled at them, her violet eyes gleaming wild with madness.

“That is not how I rule my kingdom, Your Grace,” Jon sad softly, feeling suddenly sad for whatever circumstances must have been to produce this broken queen in front of him. He should be terrified of her, should drive her away and pray that she never returns, but this frightened girl was as much his family as his uncle Eddard. Sansa and Arya were damaged when he found them, and he could not fathom leaving them to their fates any more than he could this lady in front of him. “Call off your armies and pacify your dragons, and you may sit with me for the next three days. I will show you what it means to be a ruler rather than a conqueror, one Targaryen monarch to another. What say you, aunt Daenerys?”

Jon held his hand out in front of him, the burnt and wrinkled skin reaching out to help, if only she would take it.

The dragon queen’s features softened, imperceptibly at first, but more and more the twinkle of madness in her haunted eyes faded away, and in that moment she looked like a poor, lost little girl more than anything else. “ _If I look back, I am lost…_ ” she said to nobody in particular, before locking eyes with him once again. “And please, my family calls me Dany.”

She said something in Valyrian then, but Jon had not spoken in that language at all since his meeting with Tycho Nestoris years ago as the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. _The debt … I suppose I am still responsible for that, dissolution of the Watch or no. Especially with Harrold Hardyng trying to kill me._

Val tensed beside him and responded to her in the most eloquent and perfect High Valyrian Jon had ever heard. As children, Maester Luwin had told them how it should sound, but even he faltered on certain sounds every other use. Val spoke as though she had been fluent from birth.

Whatever she said caused Daenerys first to scowl, but then to smile and finally to laugh, mirth bubbling out of her petite body until she approached Val and leaned into an embrace. The women separated and began to speak amicably, seeming like two old friends reunited at last. Jon stared in absolute confusion as they egressed through the roof house and down the stairs, arms interlocked.

Jon was left alone on the roof of the Great Keep, only Ghost for company as he rounded the corner he had been hiding behind.

“Ghost, how the _fuck_ does Val know High Valyrian?” he demanded of his stalwart companion. Ghost only sat down in front of him, gaze at eye-level, and cocked his head.

Echoing up from the stairway, he heard Val shout, “You know nothing, Jon Stark!”

Jon shook his head at the spectacle of it all. He had no clue how he would explain to his lords why he was tutoring a crazy woman who had already burned down parts of his home and killed the man who had faithfully waited years in the Neck to return Eddard Stark’s bones safely to Winterfell. Truthfully, it did not matter overmuch. They respected him, and more importantly trusted him. Their trust might weaken when he explained the true circumstances of his birth, but somehow he now doubted it. Given their other options, he might not be the worst king they could have.

As the last light of the sun faded into the western sky, Jon called softly, “Arya, you can come out. They are all gone.”

Nothing happened for a moment, but then a shadow rose from the shingles of the roof house before turning into his little sister-turned-cousin, who slipped down the slope to join him.

“That was a close one, brother. I don’t think even I could have protected you from that black dragon,” the young woman confided.

She was dressed in grey wool breeches and a grey tunic, with hard leather boots and her curly, brown, shoulder-length hair unbound. Her long face had become more than comely in womanhood, but the Valyrian steel sword hilted at her waist showed that she was no courtly lady.

Arya approached Ghost and allowed him to smother her face with licks and nuzzles. Nymeria and her pups could be heard whining from the kennels far below.

“I was more concerned that you might try to kill the queen herself,” Jon replied taking her hand and sitting them down together with their backs against the crenels. “It would not have been difficult, but who knows what the dragons might have done.”

The three great behemoths no longer circled the castle, but seemed to be flying off somewhere to the east. Jon could not fathom their intent, and so he did not try to.

“Aye, that’s true. The old me might have killed her for what her family did to ours, or for even threatening to harm you, but that would have likely doomed us all,” Arya said with a dejected sigh.

“Thank you again for saving me, Jon,” she beamed at him. “It seems you have soft spot for girls with troubled pasts,” she said with a knowing smirk.

Jon punched her in the arm. “None of that, now. I learned my lesson. Allowing myself to lose control like that almost lost me my favorite cousin.” He ruffled her hair affectionately. “Unless Val is _in the room with me_ , no fucking. That’s the rule.”

Val had been furious once he eventually told her what happened with Wylla, and Sansa, and Arya most of all. More so when she met the would-be assassin for the first time, her mind and personality locked away by the programming of the Faceless Men. Jon wanted to blame the rutting Ghost and Nymeria had apparently been doing at the time, but he knew that it was his own failings that had allowed that disaster to happen.

When Val explained the new rules to him, Jon held no illusions that other women would frequent their marriage bed. It had yet to happen at all, actually, but Jon had no problems with that either. Making love with Val was never boring, and the affections they shared always felt the most sincere out of all the other women he had fucked, Ygritte included.

That is not to say Arya did not tease him mercilessly for it once she began to recover, though. The process was slow, and she still had lapses of lost time where she would not respond to her name. The memory of her time in Braavos was spotty at best, but she insisted that no (half-decent) assassins would return to Winterfell. Despite all of this, Arya was very comfortable expressing her affection for Jon, and hinted frequently to Val that when the queen was ready, she would be willing to join them in their bed.

Val herself was silent on the matter, but with her fetish Jon guessed that it was just a matter of time – if not for Arya, then perhaps should one of the Northern ladies ask for another child.

The three of them sat on the roof for a while more, until cold starlight broke through the last pangs of dusk, twinkling in the clear summer sky. Jon and Ghost went down the stair to oversee the resetting of the Great Summer Feast while Arya slipped away once more, silent as a shadow, protecting the King in the North from all harm. It was impossible to guess when she would be ready to show herself to people besides himself and Val, but that day would surely come soon.

 

* * *

 

 

Sparks crackled from the fir logs burning in the hearth. A wrought iron screen protected the rushes from the volatile embers desperately trying to escape to set the keep ablaze. The frequent pops were accented by the melody of quiet love-making.

The feast was done for now, and Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of her Name, had been only pleasant company and was retired to the former king’s chambers in the Great Keep. Jon, of course, thought about none of this as he pleasured his wife.

Val softly moaned as Jon pumped leisurely between her thighs. He was fixated on her half-lidded expression, but he blushed when she noticed and grinned back at him. He could feel her velvet heat close tighter around him, like the sweet embrace of a lover after too long spent away from home. Jon acquiesced to her silent request and increased his speed, but he did not last long at the new pace.

“ _Val_ ,” he breathed into her hair as he shot hot dollops of semen inside of her, his pelvis and brain vibrating in ecstasy. “Thank you. You cannot possibly imagine how badly I needed that after the madness that was today,” Jon confided to her after a moment of recovery, twisting wisps of honey-blonde hair from the nape of her neck around his finger.

“Hmmm….” she replied, stroking his back with her calloused hands and holding his hips tightly to her with her strong thighs. “It was no chore, Jon. I needed it too. That was the best sex I have ever had.”

Jon pulled back to look at her incredulously, making every effort to convey his disbelief. “You must be joking,” he said in a half-question, half-statement. “I’ve had you over tables, against walls, in a river, atop a tower, and even up your arse. I’ve fucked you so hard you had bruises! And after all those times, you liked that one the best? You didn’t even finish!”

“After all this time, you still know nothing, Jon Stark,” she chastised. “Seeing that look in your eye… It was the way I feel about you, looking right back at me. Jarl never did that. While I love our adventurous fucking, that moment made all the other times seem trite in comparison.”

Waves of contentment and affection crashed over Jon, causing his cock to burgeon once again inside his wife’s cunt. He wanted to make her feel those things all over again, to satisfy her and make her _his_.

Val let out an airy gasp. “ _Jon_. We have a long day at court tomorrow … we must sleep at some… _Oooh, Jon_ …”

The slept after they made love again. Jon distantly hoped their love would blossom into another child soon as he drifted into somnolence. Life was challenging, but then again there was never a time that it was not. Jon had a kingdom, a castle, the respect of the realm, many children, and the love of a beautiful woman. He slept peacefully that night; Val curled into his arms, ready for another long summer day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: That's all, folks! I hope this ending is a bit more satisfying than the official one. I lied, there was a teeny bit of super-sappy smut right at the end.
> 
> I tried to show the resolutions of every major character I included, some requiring more effort than others. In the end, though, Jon/Val is my OTP, and I have no regrets for pushing it home like I did.
> 
> Daenerys Targaryen is one of the most interesting characters in ASOIAF, particularly in her capacity as a foil for Jon Snow. Here I used the interpretation of her as being one of the most well-developed and sympathetic villains in all of fiction, but still redeemable if someone provides what she has always really wanted - a family, and maybe a home. Don't get me wrong, this isn't necessarily how I think she will turn out in the books, I just think it is a possibility. For the record, Dany/Jon is a great pairing, it was just against my self-imposed rules for this fic (mainly because I had this ending in mind).


	10. Omake: Dany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany concludes her stay at Winterfell, and Val decides to present her with a parting gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is an omake, or "bonus", chapter. I decided to write a lemon with one of my beta-reader's favorite pairings in part as thanks for her services, and also to appease many of the readers of this story who had wanted to see it from the beginning. This chapter did break my original self-imposed rules for the story (Northern girls only, no ridiculous threesomes), but I think I managed to keep it true to the AU I've created.

Two queens and a king sat outside under the clear, deep black summer sky, surrounded by scarred but ancient sentinels, oaks, and ironwoods. The moon, round and pregnant with light, shined through lofty branches to illuminate the copse sheltering them from the brisk northern winds. Torches were nearby, but they were snuffed and unneeded on a night such as this.

This section of the godswood was more garden than sanctuary, uncultivated but verdant nonetheless. Spongey moss grew along the forest floor, thick enough to satisfy even the delicate derriere of the dragon queen. It was her third night at Winterfell, the last before she would return to the south once more.

The lords and ladies of the North, after the initial panic and clamor had worn off, had accepted Dany into the first summer court, although begrudgingly. Her relationship with Jon was kept a secret… for the better part the first morning after her arrival, until she lambasted grumpy Lord Grandison for insulting her nephew during a court dispute. The ensuing political fallout had taken the rest of the day to sort out, only subsiding when Sam proposed a Great Charter for the lords to impose certain limitations on their king.

His Maester’s chain clinked about his neck as his writing arm scratched out drafts and revisions, until finally a usable wording was agreed upon. The charter bound Jon Stark, and his heirs, to his current lands and castles, and made official the long understood duties a king was expected by his lords and vis versa, with specified penalties designated if either lord or king failed to uphold their promises. Among other things, he was forbidden from laying claim to the name _Targaryen_ , despite his ancestry, and he formally abdicated whatever lands or titles might have rightfully come to him through that name. Due to these stipulations, Dany ended up signing the documents as a witness as well. Sam labored through the night ensuring that each major house would get a copy to keep as a reference.

Jon hoped that observing the process of peaceful, albeit rambunctious, discussion and deliberation would give his aunt a goal to which she could aspire. It would be easier for his lords than hers, he knew, as his were all still freshly bound with the loyalty that only comes after spilling blood together in battle and overcoming impossible odds. The south was not so knit. And yet, the threat of dragons was once enough to unite six separate kingdoms under Aegon; a smaller, fractured kingdom seemed surprisingly workable by comparison.

One thing Jon realized was that, despite the mad gleam that occasionally graced her eyes, Dany was actually quite smart. She was multilingual and picked up smatterings of old tongue quite quickly. She exuded charisma, able to make even the most obstinate of lords come to her side in debate if she put in the effort. Her natural beauty certainly helped.

Dany had the type of face that would drive men mad if they looked too long at it. Perfectly symmetrical in every way, with dainty elfin features that made her appear almost inhuman, or too perfectly human to comprehend. She sometimes wore bells tied into her hair, too many to count, and gave only secret smiles when asked why. She was short, almost two heads shorter than Jon, but her features fit her body well and the grace of her movements only accentuated them further.

And now Jon sat with her in a quite grove of the godswood of Winterfell, accompanied by Val with all of her far northern charms. Her features were bolder and stronger, and gorgeous in their own way, but it was still apparent why men far and wide named Daenerys Targaryen the most beautiful woman in the known world.

The three lounged amongst the mossy floor, lightly dressed for the warm summer night. Val wore a single layered woolen tunic and breeches with a short sheepskin cloak, seasonably dressed for one of the relatively short Northern days. Jon mirrored her, although he preferred linen after having spent the last six years wearing nothing but wool. Dany was the odd one out, having discarded her horsehair vest and riding leathers in favor of a gauzy contraption the he imagined would be most commonly found on the streets of Lys, if not in their pillow houses. The moonlight reflected off the tanned skin underneath, although extra folds in strategic places preserved her modesty well enough. Like always, across her shoulders was the smothering pelt of the hrakkar, which he now knew to be her most treasured gift from her first husband.

Though he had never truly spared his aunt any thought at all before she had announced herself on dragon back demanding his head, Jon realized that he would indeed feel sad to see her go. He shared so many features and mannerisms with her, things he had never paid mind to about himself until he saw them mirrored in Dany. The shape of his nose, the quirk of his brow when flustered, all sorts of things the Starks had once attributed to some secret mother. All actually Targaryen features all but masked in a Stark face. It felt like he was finally able to connect with his heritage in a real, tangible

An old Dornish sour red wine had been decanted some time ago, having survived two sacks and a winter hidden behind a box of old tapestries. With summer just in bloom, there would not be more fine wine this far north for quite some time, but it seemed prudent to open a special treat given the circumstances. It was also Dany’s first time drinking such a vintage, which surprised Jon when considering someone who had seen so much of the world. Apparently Cersei Lannister had cleaned out the Red Keep’s supply by the time Daenerys had finally gotten around to sacking it.

Jon found himself pleasantly tipsy, and while Val had held herself back Dany seemed to be quite drunk. He remained the quiet observer, watching his wife and the dragon queen banter in High Valyrian. They had become fast friends, despite the initial hostilities. He could make out perhaps one word in ten, although his ears did perk up when the conversation dissolved into giggling.

“And what, pray tell, is so funny?” he asked.

“Your wife has just explained to me how _exactly_ it was that you fathered five noble heirs in less than one year,” Dany said with a knowing smirk, “and yet stayed in her good graces.”

He could feel his cheeks burn in embarrassment, but he would not be goaded into saying something brash.

“I wouldn’t say _good_ graces, necessarily. In fact, I took the whole thing rather too far,” he admitted. He sipped his wine once more. “One woman is quite enough for me, I’ve realized that now.”

“That is a shame, Jon,” Val said. “I was just going to offer our guest a chance to have her way with you here and now… but I shan’t force you if you don’t want to get fucked by another queen.”

Jon sat his goblet down on a nearby rock. This matter deserved serious contemplation.

His first thought, that this was some sort of test of his loyalty, was quickly disregarded. Val had made it known that she did want to invite other women to bed him, eventually, and that she would be the one to decide both the woman and the time. Her offer was genuine.

The second decision was simple. _Do I want to fuck Dany?_ He looked at her briefly, and observed moonbeams just barely highlight her small nipples through her foreign dress. He chided himself for even asking so obvious a question.

It was the final choice before him that haunted his thinking. Would it truly be worth it, to give himself to someone besides Val again? Would he be able to control himself, or would he once again betray the woman he truly loved?

“Please Jon… Targaryens are supposed to marry within their family, and you are all the family I have left,” Dany said from across the glade.

And just like that, the decision was made. It could not be often that a man would be courted by not one willing woman, but two simultaneously. Despite all of his angst, he knew that if he declined this offer, nothing like it would ever come again.

“Here?” Jon asked. “Now?”

“Yes, here. I do not think I can tolerate this garment another instant,” Dany said. She arched her back as she stood from the springy moss, pulling the clothing in question tight against her unbound breasts. Jon could feel his cock pulse with the first stirrings of arousal at the sight.

He stood up as well to begin the process of divesting himself, but found his progress halted by a pale hand with a strong grip.

“No, Jon,” Val said, pulling his hand away from the ties of his tunic. She spoke quietly, and although Dany could likely hear the words she politely ignored them. “I meant exactly what I said. _She_ will be fucking _you_. If you move as much as a finger without my permission, this all stops.”

She likely looked relaxed and confident to Dany, but Jon knew that she was still frightened of what she was unleashing. He also understood the implied threat. Not only would his evening with Dany come to an abrupt end, his bed would likely remain cold indefinitely if he disobeyed. Or worse, she might simply leave. She commanded her own respect among many of the guards and the freefolk that had settled around Winterfell, and Jon doubted he would be able to stop her without violence if she chose to wander. If she wished to be gone, she would be.

“Not a finger, princess,” Jon said.

Val beamed at him, and worked quickly to loosen his ties. Soon enough, he found himself stripped and naked surrounded by primordial forest and standing within arm’s reach of a beauty that had inspired songs. His erection bounced in time with his heart beat, but the rest of his body remained still.

“ _He is yours,_ ” Val said in High Valyrian.

Dany smirked and began to pace around him clad only in her smallclothes, appraising his body. Her silver hair floated behind her in the moonlight, refracting it around her tan skin and petite frame. She disappeared behind him, and Jon resisted the urge to move his neck to keep her within his gaze. He felt her drift closer to him, not by true sensation but by a tingling feeling in the back of his neck.

“You remind me of my sun-and-stars,” she said. He felt her soft body press against his back and a gentle hand reach around to grasp the base of his cock. It drifted lower and pulled at the loose skin of his scrotum. “Well, at least here you do. Your face is actually quite a bit like mine. But your muscles and your stones and your cock are just as wonderful as his ever were.”

She came around to his front, cheeks glowing from wine and excitement. “Now lay down, nephew. I would look down on you as I take my pleasure.”

Doing as instructed, Jon capitulated into repose over his recently discarded cloak. Despite the generally comfortable natural bedding of this area of the godswood, his encounter with Meera Reed had warned him of the dangers of mixing detritus and friction.

To his surprise, he felt another depression tug at the cloak to his left. A glance found Val laying on her side next to him, one leg propped in the air. Her breeches were noticeably absent, allowing one fine hand to caress the lightly furred mound of her crotch.

“Look at your prize, Dany,” she crooned at the dragon queen.

Dany grinned down at him, feet on either side of his hips. A damp patch had appeared in her smallclothes, and he felt the tip of his cock leak in response. “He is beautiful, I admit. I haven’t had a man this pretty since my time in Meereen.” She squatted, brushing the tip of his cock with her thinly protected cunt. He twitched involuntarily, pressing firm against her body for a small moment before regaining control of himself. Her violet eyes bored into him. “Of course, Daario was always in charge when we fucked. But you have been in charge during my time at Winterfell, so it’s only right that I decide how things go now. Isn’t that right, Jon?”

He hesitated, not wanting to lose the game they were playing with him, but eventually determined that they would want an answer from him if directly asked.

“You can do whatever you like with me, Dany. Whatever Val allows,” he said. Those were the rules they had agreed on, ages ago when the possibility of future lovers had first been broached.

“Hmm. Then you will address me as ‘Your Grace’ so long as your cock is hard,” she said as she dragged her body across the underside of the object in question, the smooth garment sliding against the sensitive area beneath the head. He felt hard enough to shatter glass at the moment.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he replied.

“Good boy,” Dany quipped. Her knees dropped forward, changing the angle of her teasing grind against him. She leaned back, exposing her flat stomach and stiff nipples to a stray beam of light. The rocking of her hips changed angles, and he could tell she was trying to work his cock between her smallclothes and her svelte body. He wished to help her, to tear the smallclothes from her hips and bury himself in her wet heat. Resisting the urge was exquisite torture.

Dany let out a moan when she succeeded, and Jon was forced to suck in a breath at the feeling of his sensitive cockhead sliding betwixt the gooey lips of her cunt and the silky fabric that still blocked it from view. Warm streams of nectar dribbled down his shaft; he was so aroused he could not tell whether it was her juices or his own.

She leaned forward, bracing her arms against his chest and rocking her hips forward. His cock twitched against his will once again, and he could feel it slide against the entrance to his aunt’s cunt. “You really can’t control yourself, can you Jon?” she said with a smirk. “It’s probably the ‘wolf blood’ in you, as your bannermen put it.”

Searing heat enveloped his cock, and Jon did everything in his power not to scream in relief.

“I wonder if this is how it was for your parents,” she said as she began to grind her perfect hips along his cock, alternating between back and forth or side to side every few strokes. “The wild Lyanna Stark, overwhelming my innocent and sheltered brother as he tried his hardest to suppress his lust.”

The motion changed again. Jon clenched his teeth when Dany lifted her hips away from his body, leaving just the tip of him still inside her. Rather than impale herself onto him as he expected, however, she undulated her belly causing her cunt to slide hardly any distance at all against his cockhead before changing directions, and then back again. The effect was incredible – the tightest part of her cunt, the muscles at the entrance, squeezed around him and slipped over the ridge of his head with each pass. He could almost hear a small wet pop with each beat.

A silver curtain enshrouded him as Dany looked down at him. Her face was burning with arousal, and her eyes had the same manic gleam from their first meeting. “My poor brother, knowing only his sickly Dornish wife before being tempted by a wanton maiden…

“She probably teased him like this… for h-hours…”

Try as she might to continue the fantasy monologue she was playing out in her head, Dany was not unaffected by her exertions.

“I think it was – _ohh_ , Lord Umber that… that said Lyanna used to ride horses b-better than most knights…” she said, bending down and brushing her pouting lips against his ear as her cunt lips brushed against his cock. “Would you like me to ride you like that, nephew?”

Jon had never heard a suggestion that sounded so good.

“Yes, _please_ Your Grace, please…” he gasped out.

“Then we shall see who rides better, your mother… or me,” she said with a kiss on his cheek. Incredibly, the tightness around his cock clamped down even more before she slammed her hips down. Jon could feel her perfectly formed arse slap against his thighs and watched in awe as Dany’s hips moved independent of her torso to rise again. Strands of fluid shimmered in the moonlight around his cock in the short moment before her loins enveloped him again.

Dany rode him hard and fast, and the smacks of their fucking diffused through the trees surrounding them. Even with his mind distracted by the divine sensation of filling the body of an angelic young woman, he heard another sound a short distance away. The _schlicking_ sound of his lady wife masturbating next to him satisfied the part of his mind that wandered if Val was truly pleased by the arrangement. Knowing that she was enjoying herself, he allowed himself to become fully immersed in the experience.

And what an experience it was. Dany was panting between each stroke, occasionally letting out high-pitched yelps of pleasure as she fucked his rigid cock. Her chest heaved with the effort, pressing her breasts tight against his chest – perfect softness molding around his hardy frame. She cried out and sat upright once again. Her hips ground against his pelvis, sawing his cock back and forth inside of her, as though she were trying and failing to scratch a very particular itch.

“Turn around,” Val said in High Valyrian. “It will feel wonderful,” she said in between gasps of her own.

The dragon queen gave the wildling princess an appraising look before letting out a throaty laugh that sounded suspiciously like a moan. The incredible feeling around Jon’s cock dissipated only for a moment as the petite woman turned around before squatting once again. He had an ideal view of her buttocks, round and hard and soft all at once, bulging against her smallclothes as she pulled them aside to position herself over his cock. Her hairless cunt was flushed red and engorged, and seemed incandescent as it swallowed his relatively pale cock.

The grinding rhythm resumed, and Dany’s reaction was instantaneous. His cock now rubbed against the rough patch on the inside of her cunt, just behind her own pelvis, and her moans became uncontrollable. Tiny beads of sweat ran down her back and filtered down the seam of her rump as it bounced and pulled against him.

His aunt’s hands gripped his knees tightly, as though she were holding on to the saddle of a wild horse, or perhaps a dragon. It felt like a slick inferno inside of her, like she was trying to make his cock melt, and the delicious friction only intensified.

“ _Aaaahh!_ Fuck! Yes!” she screamed. Her hips adhered to his, and she vibrated in place above him. Hearing her wanton wails nearly did him in, but the lack of motion prevented him from reaching his own climax. More than anything, he wanted to move and finish himself off, possibly even extend her own pleasure. But he had promised Val that he would not disobey, no matter what, and so he waited and gasped as the most beautiful woman in the world orgasmed around his cock.

It lasted an eternity, and no time at all, and it was over. The Queen of the Six Kingdoms slid off his cock, landing face down just past his feet, her cheek pressed against the soft linen of his cloak. He could see her ribs expanding to accommodate her deep breaths, assisted by the muscles of her stomach. Her cunt still dripped with arousal, taunting him.

“Jon,” said Val next to him, her own voice breathy and tight. “You have my permission. Do whatever you like to her. Fuck her until you finish.” She slapped her fingers against her own cunt for emphasis.

“Wha–” was all Dany was able to say before she cried out in pleasure once again.

At Val’s command, Jon’s instincts took over. Dany’s hips still quaked before him, the strong muscles in her legs, which kept her steady in any saddle she decided to ride, traced a line to her cunt, just barely folded under the globes of her arse. Unlike the rest of her, her arsehole was as pale as summer snow, and Jon had been overcome with urge he had not felt in years.

His first time seeing Ygritte in all her naked glory, he could not resist pressing his mouth against her fiery cunt and kissing it for all he was worth. It seemed natural, to show such appreciation for the part of a lover’s body that brings so much bliss.

And while it _specifically_ had not brought him to bliss, Danaerys Targaryen’s arsehole was so shockingly enticing that there was no way he could avoid kissing it.

Jon knew that had he had time to think about this before he began, he would have been too embarrassed to even consider such a thing. He had never even heard of whores doing this, and here he was pushing his face between the arse cheeks of the mother of dragons, his tongue licking a circle around the tight hole there before pushing inside.

His left hand wrapped around her leg and curled underneath her to grab her buttock, pulling it out of the way and allowing him to become completely immersed in her arse while keeping her hips supported. This proved prudent as her powerful leg muscles gave out with another shudder. His right hand snuck around similarly, but stopped at the small nub at the apex of her cunt. He pinched it between his knuckles and vibrated his hand as best he could, stimulating her even more.

Unlike Wylla, Arya, or Val, the only other women with whom he had incorporated anal stimulation, Dany had a distinct lack of pubic hair of any kind, including around her arse. This was certainly part of its appeal – the lack of hair meant that no distractions would get caught in his teeth, and allowed him to focus on the zesty taste that was pure _Dany_. Incidental licks to the small, slightly protruding inner lips of Dany’s cunt provided a refreshing, sweet contrast to the experience.

Time ceased to flow as he pleasured Dany in every way he could think of with his mouth and hands. Twice more he felt her shake uncontrollably, and at times her muscles lost all tone and he had to support her completely on his own. It truly could not have been that long, but Jon did know that he never wanted it to end.

At least, until his cock was once again surrounded by a soft, wet pressure. Still indescribably hard, he broke away from Dany’s arse long enough to see Val swallow him to the base. She still teased her own cunt with a hand between her legs, her arse propped up in the air away from him but overall in a similar fashion as that of the dragon queen. After a few passes, she pulled away with a ‘pop’ and looked him in the eye. She seemed to have acquired Dany’s manic gaze as well.

“Finish her Jon,” she said. “Give her your seed.”

Letting go of Dany’s hips, Jon pulled Val into an embrace and kissed her soundly on the lips. “I love you, you know,” he told her. She replied only with a dazzling smile, and a nod in the direction of the overstimulated Valyrian arse close by.

“By the gods of Old Valyria…” Dany was panting, mixed with other curses in languages Jon could not even pretend to recognize. It did not matter truly, for he could tell that she was still enraptured.

He pushed her knees together and pulled her hips up. Her lower back swayed down, as she was unable to provide the energy to keep even that much upright under her own power. Jon brought his now adamantine cock against her, teasing only for a moment against her hypersensitive arsehole before sliding lower and burying himself inside her cunt.

She still felt like pure liquid fire around him, spurring him to greater heights than he had previously imagined. Hardly any time at all passed before the heavy feeling at the base of his cock began to build, signaling his impending release. He hammered into the dragon queen’s hips like a madman, and she seemed to love every moment of it. No matter how hard or rough he became, she continued to beg for more.

Eventually the sensation overtook him. Jon screamed in voiceless ecstasy as his body succumbed to the paradise of filling the most beautiful woman in the world with his seed. He could feel it pulsing out of his cock, caught in her sweltering depths. He held her hips tight against his own, instinctively preventing even a drop from escaping –

And then he was flat on his back, and his wife mounted his painfully sensitive cock. She rode him like a courser, slick and smooth and graceful, and before he knew what was happening his pelvis tightened again and he erupted inside Val. She looked down at him, mostly grey eyes filled with so much love and affection that he could not help but kiss her as he pumped his hips into her for the final surges of his orgasm.

They laid there afterward, soaking in sweat on a decently warm Northern summer night. Dany got enough strength back in her limbs to roll over at some point, the petite woman snuggling into Jon and Val’s mutual embrace. Jon rolled them into his cloak as best he could, although it was soaked in places by their activities. Aftershocks jolted through each of them in fits, and at one point Dany laughed for no reason at all. It sounded like bells ringing.

 

* * *

 

Jon watched, mesmerized as his daughter suckled at Val’s teats. Despite fathering so many children, he had only ever been able to watch Val feed one before now. This one was only the second. She was a small thing still, with honey-blonde hair and solid grey eyes. She was barely a month old, and she meant everything to him.

Val, always less likely to get caught up in such emotional moments, was reading her correspondence while their daughter fed.

“Jon, have you seen this? From King’s Landing?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Not if it has come in the last week, no.”

“It’s a letter from Dany. She congratulates us on our new daughter.”

“How considerate,” he said, unsure what she was getting at.

“She also announces the birth of her firstborn son, a strong boy with Valyrian features, born just twenty-two days ago,” Val said. She looked at him fondly and arched a single eyebrow in suggestion. “That means he was born on the same day as our daughter. I wonder who the father could be…”

Jon smiled at her, before standing up and kissing both his wife and his daughter on their foreheads. “I couldn’t say, my lady. But if she were to ever want another child… Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind helping in whatever way I can.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Val scolded. “Lady Mormont is arriving in two weeks, and we have an arrangement to maintain with her… But after that, I suppose we can visit our friend in the south.”

“As long as we go together,” Jon said. “That seems to be the best way of doing things.”

“Aye,” Val replied. “Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There it is, the destruction of my artistic integrity. Or it would be, if I had any in the first place. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Teaser: If anyone is interested, I've just posted the first chapter a new story that I'm working on. The tone will be very different from _Seeds_ , and it won't be nearly as smutty, but I do promise to include a lemon before the end with a pairing that I don't think gets nearly the attention it deserves. If you liked this story, please consider reading _[The Taming of the Queen](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6018610/chapters/13809118)_.
> 
> The story I originally teased at the end of the epilogue "with two underused pairings" is now complete! If you are interested more world building and smut, please consider _[Summer and Winter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8998828)_!


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